All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.
Those were some of the first words Lyndon B. Johnson uttered on November 27, 1963.
Johnson had just ascended to the highest office in the land — the United States Presidency. It was a role he had long aspired toward. But now, in a speech to Congress, he seemed to yearn to give it all back.
In a vacuum, such desires might have seemed odd — even alarming. A reluctant leader of the free world would be a major liability.
But at this moment, those words were a torniquet for a wounded nation.
You see, just four days earlier, Johnson had taken the oath of office aboard Air Force One. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated during a parade in downtown Dallas. And Johnson needed to assume Kennedy’s office immediately.
The shock and horror of that event had rattled everyone. The worst had happened — in Johnson’s home state of Texas, no less — and now the nation was reeling. This surely was not how Johnson had envisioned his ascension.
Johnson had a reputation as a bulldog, a politician who could achieve objectives through sheer will and resolve. He was as tough as they came, and he could be emphatically persuasive.
But those were not the qualities the American people needed to see at a time like this. So, in that initial address to Congress, Johnson took far more somber tone.
An assassin’s bullet has thrust upon me the awesome burden of the Presidency. I am here today to say I need your help; I cannot bear this burden alone.
Johnson would later speak of the need for strength, and his obligation to honor Kennedy’s legacy by seeing through his initiatives.
But make no mistake. This was not a bold and fiery address. It was quite the opposite.
In a moment of turmoil, the normally tough-minded Texan had become exactly who the nation needed him to be.
About three months before Johnson took the dais in the United States Capitol, another man stepped up to a microphone on the far end of the National Mall.
Staring toward the Washington Monument, that man spoke of his dreams. Dreams of a future of improved racial relations, of civil rights, of hope.
That man, of course, was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. And those words would go on to change history.
But they almost didn’t happen.
Indeed, if you were to peek at Dr. King’s script on that August day in 1963, the words I have a dream would not be on there. The reverend was planning to speak of reality, rather than visions.
This straightforward approach had been Dr. King’s hallmark. He took a plainspoken tone during the Montgomery Bus Boycotts and in his Letter from Birmingham Jail.
The objectives were to call out injustice and spur action. And this style of leadership had helped achieve both thus far.
But as he stared out from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Dr. King realized the crowd assembled before him needed something more. They needed hope.
And in that moment, Dr. King became who he needed to be to deliver it.
There’s no doubt that Lyndon B. Johnson heard about that speech. After all, the White House is roughly a mile from where Dr. King delivered it.
So, when it was his turn to speak to an aggrieved nation, Johnson had a blueprint. A shining example of how to speak from the heart. A case study in being what his audience needed him to be.
Johnson followed that blueprint and met the moment.
But his words ended up guiding us into the wilderness.
History has proven unkind to Lyndon Johnson.
An escalating war abroad and civil unrest at home ultimately did his presidency in. The fiasco redrew political lines in permanent marker, setting the precursor for a modern-day divided America.
Perhaps that’s why few point to Johnson’s address to Congress as exemplary leadership these days. Maybe they feel that discretion seems the better part of valor.
That could well be the case. But I think something deeper is at play.
You see, there is a popular leadership standard called The Steady Hand. This approach prioritizes consistency in all situations. And prominent examples of it are everywhere.
There’s Winston Churchill’s steely defiance, which remained intact through the ups and downs of World War II. There’s Derek Jeter’s quiet confidence, a metronome that steered the New York Yankees through years of baseball dominance. There’s even Steve Jobs’ petulance, which might not have been desirable, but still yielded consistent innovation.
These examples — and others — have helped The Steady Hand take on a life of its own. So much so that it’s become the de facto playbook for leadership.
Those who follow it are lauded. Those who eschew it are critiqued — through shouts or in whispers.
That’s what happened to President Lyndon B. Johnson. It’s even what happened to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Each is remembered for how their moment in the limelight ended. One a pariah, the other a martyr.
Such focus is a reflection on their malleability and their vulnerability. It’s a statement on the price to paid by those who buck the Steady Hand trend.
Yet, these broad doses of rug sweeping do us no good. It doesn’t cover up the inherent flaws in the Steady Hand approach.
Indeed, there are times when this approach is not enough. There are times when we need to see our reflection in the eyes of those who inspire us. There are times when we need our heroes to be human.
And in those moments, the best leaders become exactly who we need them to be.
We seem to have forgotten this lesson. But it’s not too late to change course.
There’s a concept out there called Active Listening.
Rather than just opening their ears, active listeners open their minds. They absorb the speakers’ words rather than jumping at ready responses. They try to understand what the speaker is thinking and take that context into account.
I learned of this concept in business school and was smitten with it instantly. It’s changed how I communicate and how I live.
There’s more nuance to my personal and professional relationships now. I better understand where friends, family and co-workers are coming from when they speak with me. And I’m more adept at meeting the moment and being who they need me to be.
It’s worked wonders for me. And I’m certain it could have a similar effect for others.
You see, we could all use some active listening. We could all use some malleability in our approach. We could all use some practice in being who we need to be.
So, let’s put away our stubborn pride. Let’s stop standing on ceremony. And let’s get to work.
A world of good awaits us. Let’s unlock it.