Two Pieces of Paper

The following was first written on July 24th, 2025.

When I was a young Sailor, my words and actions were not aligned. I knew I was the best, but I certainly didn't act the best. I'd say a whole bunch of worthless rhetoric would spew from my mouth and I wouldn't produce anything to show for it. Then I would be upset when things didn't go my way. Funny how I didn't feel like I was appreciated.

There was one thing I did do, however, and that was apply some pearls of wisdom. I had this Chief, and at the time my friend Darryl and I called him "The Good Chief," who recommended a book by a guy I've never heard of named Jack Welch. This was the days before Simon Sinek came along and took a complete and fertile defecation on his business model. To everyone else, Jack was a brilliant mind, one who pushed General Electric to become the GE we know today. At least at this time in 2009.

Jack's book was called Jack: Straight from the Gut (2001). I read it to get some insight on how to manage and think about leading people. Through time I have tuned my style, but I needed a starting point. There were a couple of points I still remember from that book, but the one that sticks out the most to me was his use of personalized notes. Apparently it meant something to get a stationary from his desk with a handwritten note, and I always found that so personal, intimate even.

As a junior Sailor it is hard to be taken seriously on almost anything. I would write these long dissertations on the injustices made against me, I wish I still had those emails. It wasn't until the end of my second duty station that I began to employ Jack's habit of writing notes. They were written on generic stationary because I was too poor at the time to order customary stationary.

It wasn't until my third duty station at Naval Branch Health Clinic Iwakuni that I began to hit my stride. I was dual warfare qualified, meritoriously promoted, just came off of sea duty, and just finished being pushed by the greatest chain of command I ever had. I ordered my own custom stationary, and I used it. Usually after junctures such as a team event I had a hand in planning or after a great conversation I shared with someone, I'd close the loop with a note on my reflections of that particular event.

To me, there is nothing better than a handwritten letter. I only have a couple of friends who I still write to today who reciprocate the gesture. It's truly a dying art, but what isn't dying is showing little ways of conveying that I was invested in that moment with you. That I was watching you do something all the while even when you thought no one was. You were being recognized in the smallest of ways like me taking the time out of my day to write you a note to acknowledge everything and anything which comes to my mind. Showing appreciation doesn't always come in the form or legitimate awards, promotions, or grandiose gestures of praise. Sometimes it's little pieces of paper showing up in your inbox one morning and nothing more. Maybe even denial that it was ever written in the first place.

As I pack up everything, I have only two pieces of stationary left from my time on the USS America (LHA 6). My pack started at 100 over three years ago. I want to write a final line or two, but to whom should the recipient be? Who will get to hear my final thoughts on them before I leave? Part of it is legacy, the other is deciding how to convey that you were important enough to me that I wanted to share my final piece of paper on. There is so much I want to say, to project that I cared, to even atone for my perceived actions that I didn't.

One thing is certain, there are few feelings more gratifying than to see one of those notes posted on someone's desk. Like it's a word of encouragement or some memento to remind them that they were always being watched over. That was the entire point all along.