The Path of Most Persistence
Early in his career, Lyndon Johnson completed every task as if his life depended on it.
Whether he was campaigning for a local politician, teaching debate to high school students, or answering mail as a Congressional secretary, he persisted like no other.
In his first job in Washington, LBJ was secretary to Congressman Richard Kleberg. Kleberg was a good ‘ol Texas boy, and he was more interested in playing golf than playing politics. He spent his mornings sleeping off hangovers, his afternoons on the golf course, and his evenings working on the hangover for the next day. All the while, LBJ was in Kleberg’s office, tending to his congressional duties.
One of the largest duties was the mail.
Letters poured in—dozens, even hundreds per day—from members of the 14th Congressional District of Texas. The citizens were asking for jobs, recommendations for West Point, help with their military pensions—all the normal favors a Congressman fulfills.
Kleberg’s office wasn’t unique in the mail they received. Most districts were the same. Hundreds of letters every day asking for different versions of the same favors.
Kleberg’s office was unique in how they responded to the mail. Most offices fell behind in their responses. They simply didn’t answer, or they sent a template reply with a pat on the back and an empty promise. But not Kleberg—or should I say, not LBJ.
Johnson understood the importance of the mail. The year was 1933. There was no internet. There was no TV. There were limited phone calls and limited air travel. The only way for a Congressman in Washington to connect with his constituents in Texas was to respond to the mail. So respond he did.
Johnson and his two assistants responded to every single letter, every single day. If a letter arrived on Monday, a response went out on Monday. The lights were on in the Kleberg office well before sunrise, and they burned well after sunset. The whole time, typewriters ticking away, churning out letters.
Not only were they replying to every letter, they were custom writing every response. No request received a blanket reply. No task had a template. Each constituent received the care of a mother writing a letter to her son.
Unlike the other offices, Johnson’s letters didn’t contain a pat on the back and an empty promise, they contained action. If a veteran asked for help with his pension, Johnson called the VA and got it sorted out.
If Johnson ever thought the mail was getting light, he worked to increase the load.
He received every single newspaper printed in Kleberg’s district. He’d scan the papers and put check marks next to events worthy of a letter. Birth announcements, business openings, and weddings all received a letter. At the end they’d pose a question which often solicited a response. Something like, “How am I doing in Washington?”
But Johnson didn’t stop there. He and his assistants made lists of every high school graduate in the district. Then they wrote dozens of different letters so each graduate received a unique congratulation from his or her Congressman.
The mail was something LBJ could conquer. It was a pursuit in which he could persist. It was a minor detail he could control and carry out better than the competitors.
Answering the mail didn’t take any particular skill. It didn’t require special knowledge or insider connections. All it required was dogged determination. It required exceptional execution and painstaking persistence.
Every day from dawn till dusk, and often longer, LBJ and his assistants answered every letter. They connected with Kleberg’s constituents in a way no other Congressman did. They persisted in letter writing, at Johnson’s direction, as if their lives depended on it.
This persistence was a pillar upon which Johnson built his castle. Without it, the initials “LBJ” wouldn’t mean anything to us. But instead, they paint a picture of greatness.
If persistence worked for Johnson, why wouldn’t it work for you?
Cover Photo by Louis Velazquez on Unsplash
