But in veteran circles, we call it the "G-VC." The Medal of Honor. That "C" is heavy. It means the nation, through its highest legislative body, has certified that you did something that looks like a miracle but was actually a nightmare.

Imagine a 22-year-old Marine infantryman sees your tattoo at a grocery store. He approaches you. He looks at the blue star. He looks at your eyes. He doesn't know you. He asks, quietly: "Were you there?"

But tattoo artists will tell you: That star is a trap.

I know a former Marine who got the Medal of Honor tattooed over his heart. He had never deployed. He had never been shot at. He got it because his grandfather was a recipient at Iwo Jima. When I asked him about the reaction, he said: "Every time I take my shirt off at the gym, old vets stare at me. They aren't admiring the art. They are searching my eyes to see if I've earned the right to wear it."

The MOH has a lot of fine detail. Tiny stars. A tiny face. Small, precise lines. Over five years, those lines spread. Over ten years, Minerva starts to look like a blob. Over twenty years, that "Valor" text becomes a black smudge.

Why? Because for most recipients, the medal represents the worst day of their life. For every man like Dakota Meyer (who has a subtle MOH tattoo on his forearm), there are a dozen who hide the medal in a sock drawer. The medal doesn't remind them of the White House ceremony. It reminds them of the friend they couldn't save. The blood on their hands. The 3 AM guilt.

Rarely. And when they do, it is usually late in life, and it is usually small.