The Origin Story (Part 2) - Hi! I am Lap Dog.

What's up, Lap Dog?"

The statement caught me off guard. No first-year "boot" Cobra pilot talks to a senior pilot with three combat tours in his logbook like that.

It wasn't just the informality and the perceived lack of respect. It was the fact that I hadn't been Lap Dog since 2009 when the Vipers changed my callsign to Action. There is history there.

My blood boiled.

"Don't you ever fucking call me that again," I shot back.

The tension in the Twentynine Palms chow line was thick. Anyone within 5 meters of the blast radius of my voice went silent. I walked away, feeling I had appropriately restored my authority.

Those would be the last words I ever said to Ben Cerniglia. We would lose him in a tragic midair collision during a training mission on February 22, 2012.

This is one of the scars I have from my time in the Marines. But it is a part of my story.

And I need to share it.

Some Stories are Best Left Untold

VB. Deebo. 10 Cent. Spanglish. Whitey. Fungus. Skanch. Smash. Spicoli. Swinger. Discharge.

Gunt. Cheese. Muff. Grape Ape. Subotai. Carney. Tuna. McGee. Ascot.

Cockeye. Twilight. Ponce. NASA. NINI. H. Chilli.

Poops. Jethro. Sniper.

Lap Dog. Action.

Marine call signs are... let's just say, special. As a community, Marine aviators are comfortable producing the most memorable namesakes that sum up an identity with brilliant economy.

Traditionally, callsigns are imparted to new aviators by older pilots during their first squadron tour and after the first deployment. Appropriate fodder is anything that an aviator did to be memorable. The more embarrassing and incriminating, the better. Trust me, there are more than a few aviators who will never share the backstory of their callsign with their mother.

These are secrets that go to the grave.

As Marines, we know a lot about a person when we know their callsign. It becomes their primary identity. In this community, you are more likely to hear someone ask, "Hey, do you know Hobbit?" than you would "Do you know Tom Dolan?"

That is why this tradition is so powerful.

It also happens to be emblematic of my leadership journey. An admission of one of the darkest times of my life.

It is the story of how I came to be Lap Dog. Then Action. And my rediscovery and genuine appreciation of Lap Dog and what that means for what I do today.

The smut Log

I became Lap Dog in the late spring of 2008—before my first deployment to Iraq. Of course, I didn't like the callsign. Note: Typically, you are NOT supposed to like it. That is usually how you know you have a good one.

It just didn't seem to fit me. There was no story. No embarrassing tale or random feat I accomplished. I had no physical features that supported this Lap Dog identity. It didn't land with me.

After coming home from my first deployment, I volunteered to switch squadrons and deploy to Afghanistan a few months later. And when that deployment ended, the leadership of that squadron changed my callsign to "Action" — a smooth pairing with my last name and a harkening back to Carl Weathers' 1988 film, Action Jackson. 

I was happy to be done with Lap Dog and liked my new callsign.

Fast forward over the next few years of squadron life, where two events marked the lowest points of my leadership journey. Complete departures from my values and who I am as a leader.

The first happened on my 2010/11 deployment. Marine Light Attack Helicopter Squadrons (HMLAs) are notoriously competitive, known for exceptionally high training standards, and are fiercely hierarchical. Two years of experience between pilots is the difference between a tactical ninja and an aviator who barely knows how to start the aircraft.

This was my third deployment, and I was beginning to come into my own. I wasn't elite, but I had already attained some of the most coveted and hardly earned qualifications / designations a Marine aviator could earn.

So, after I found that I made an appearance in the squadron's "smut log" — something of a long, complicated, and under-the-table tradition of HMLA-169 pilots — I lost my cool. Big time.

In the log, I was depicted in a drawing, terrified of flying. The header: "No Action Jackson."

I thought I knew exactly what the hit piece was referencing. A few nights before, my crew and I decided to delay a mission to extract Navy SEALs from an operation they had conducted. One of the SEALs was hurt but stable. The problem was that bands of hail and lightning storms were moving in and out of the area, and we didn't think the risk of getting caught in the storm was worth getting the SEALs out six hours faster than if we just waited for the storm to pass.

I had the lives of the crew in my section, the Ospreys we were escorting, and the SEALs that were waiting to be considered. It was not an easy call. 

I ended up having a lively argument with my boss over this decision for a variety of reasons that are beyond the scope of this blog. Our verbal sparring match was heard by two junior pilots in the officers'. Two days later, the hit piece was published.

I fumed. I boiled. I was hurt.

So I plotted and fired back. I wrote my own hit piece attacking one of the junior pilots I assumed was involved in the production of No Action Jackson. 

It was hateful, inappropriate, and far beneath the dignity and respect Marine officers should show each other. Straight up: I was no better than a cadre of junior high mean girls spreading gossip about meaningless bullshit.

I am certain I lost more credibility with my response than I had with my risk-based decision not to fly that Afghan winter night. The satisfaction I had defending my wounded ego was fleeting.

It was a stupid decision and one I deeply regret.

The Banner

I would come home from that deployment in the late spring of 2011. Volunteers were needed to go on a quick-turn deployment with one of our sister squadrons (HMLA-469) to take them to Afghanistan the next year.

Addicted to the adrenaline of deploying, I raised my hand again. That would be my fourth and final combat deployment.

Within four months of my checking in to 469, I showed up to work with a banner beneath the squadron sign. "HMLA-469 Vengeance: Home of Capt. "Lap Dog" Jackson.

Another blow to the ego.

To this day, I don't know who did it and exactly why. My best guess - it was the peers of the junior pilot I attacked that night in Afghanistan, getting one final "fuck you" in at me.

Was I too prideful? Was I a huge asshole? Did I buy into this "Action" persona?

Who was I?

No doubt, Ben saw the banner and thought it was funny. His quip to me weeks after was probably an innocent—even if misguided by the unspoken community standards—joke that pilots crack on each other.

Regardless of whatever details I can offer here to quell my embarrassment, I look back on 2010 to early 2012 with a lot of pain and regret.

There is no way around it. I let ego control me. It poisoned my soul. I was a bad friend and an even worse leader.

Those memories still haunt me to this day.

Anyone who knew me in 2009 and prior wouldn't have recognized Action. I became a stranger to friends, family, and myself.

 

Can we use our Mistakes as Fuel to Ignite a Brighter Future?

In this, I've come to see the present as an opportunity and the gift of discovery. We are not confined to our past if we are open to growth and evolution. Maybe Buddha said it best: "Life is accessible only in the present moment."

This is why I offer this to leaders: You didn't sign a contract with your past, so why are you committing to it now?

Just because you took action or represented yourself in one way before doesn't mean that is who you are or what you do. Your identity is not rearward-looking. It also isn't what you hope to be tomorrow.

Your identity is how you are showing up right now at this very moment. The present is all that matters. It is the only thing we can possibly control. We can't waste energy worrying about what happened in the past and what may happen in the future.

The people we lead. The people we love. All that matters is how we show up in the present.

A big part of my "spiritual walkabout" was getting a handle on my ego and rediscovering my identity. To understand who I am in the present, I needed to reconcile my past and move on from thought patterns and complicated histories that no longer served me.

Action is not me. Action let his ego control him. He got caught up in the competitiveness of trying to be the best. He thought respect came with authority and was quick to bite when anyone slighted him.

But Lap Dog? Lap Dog is lovable and kind. He cares deeply about relationships. He serves others and draws deep satisfaction in amplifying their successes. 

In this rediscovery of my identity—in the deepest reflections I have had these past three years—I have learned that I am Lap Dog.

Marine callsigns. Rich stories. Good laughs. A brilliant way to sum up an identity from those who truly know you. Sometimes better than you know yourself.

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Justin is an experienced leadership coach committed to making a difference in the world, beginning with influential leaders in positions to effect change. His diverse professional background includes co-founding several startups in the non-profit, education, and cybersecurity sectors, as well as leading in various marketing, operations, and analytics roles. Additionally, he is a 20+ year veteran of the United States Marine Corps.