Mita Lakhia

Bump E603A

September 26, 2005

All I could think about was the late afternoon sun beating down on me as I waited at the bus stop next to Carothers. Rather than anticipating my journey into the unknown, I created a mental “to-do” list of all the schoolwork that sat waiting for me in my dorm room. Economics was, by far, my hardest class with early theater history a close second. I was not quite sure why I wanted to board that bus and travel to an end of campus I had never seen. With all the things I still had to do, I probably should have stayed home, but it was as if something was drawing me there, I just did not know what it was yet.

A few minutes later the Forty Acres bus finally arrived, and I quickly gathered my thoughts to jump onto the bus and attempt to look for a seat. I glanced around only to find that it was going to be another standing bus ride for me. “Ugh, isn’t public transportation great?” I muttered sarcastically to myself as I looked for something to grab onto.

I got off at the corner of 23^rd and San Jacinto across from the stadium. Adventure? Well, not yet, but I was defiantly on my way. By this time I was finally excited about the task at hand and concentrated on putting all other thoughts out of my head. I squinted into the sun in order to look up at the massive hill that lay ahead of me. I trudged up toward Robert Dedman Rd, regretting once again that I was in the heat. The massive white building that I finally approached was my destination, the Lyndon B. Johnson Library and Museum. There was something powerful and urgent about the sight of the architecture; it practically demanded attention.

The view of the Museum as I approached from the hill ⁱ

The elevator doors opened onto the tenth floor and I tentatively stepped out. Almost dead silence greeted me, as I turned to my left and looked into the next room. The initial creaking of the old wooden floor startled me, and I froze. In front of me stood a bronze statue of the late President Lyndon B. Johnson. As I began to read the inscription behind it, my eyes wandered into the doorway directly in front of me. This was it. I skipped the rest of the paragraph I had been reading and made my way into the room that I was looking for all along. I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold and into the past. It was LBJ’s Oval Office, an office in which life-altering decisions were made, where leaders had met, where history was created.

“This office is replica of the Oval Office as used by President Lyndon B Johnson. It is exactly the same except it is one eighth smaller…”

I practically jumped out of my skin when the voiceover projected from the speakers above me. I realized immediately however that the sensor was activated when I stepped through the doorway. I tuned out the rest of the speech and became captivated by every inch of the room.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“What? Oh, yes it’s surreal,” I replied, turning around to see who had asked the question. “I didn’t even hear you come in behind me…” My voice trailed off as I glanced around the room looking for the owner of the voice but found no one. “I must be imagining things,” I thought aloud as I turned back toward the exhibit. To the right of where I was standing were three television sets typical of those in that time. With all that occurred during his presidency, LBJ always stayed informed by tuning into all three major networks at once. The desk was from his years in Congress and had an odd familiarity to it. It reminded me of my desk back at home, where I had sat and made many important decisions of my own. The enormous presidential seal on the center of the dull green rug practically swallowed the whole room. LBJ’s signature rocking chair sat near the seal, and for a second I thought I saw it rocking back and forth. “Goodness, what’s wrong with me?” I whispered, “First I hear voices, now I see an empty rocking chair actually rocking.”

“Sorry to interrupt your thoughts, but I just wanted you to know it was me.”

My head spun around to track down the speaker and was abruptly greeted by a balding man in his late fifties smiling knowingly at me.

“Oh, I didn’t realize that anyone could get behind the bar,” I said pointing toward the railing that separated the walkway I stood on and the rest of the room.

“Well, most people can’t, but it is my room after all.”

“I didn’t know that, I’m sorry,” I quickly replied, slightly confused about the situation. I realized he probably worked in the museum and took care of the exhibits. We stood face to face and I was astounded by how familiar he seemed. “Wow, you look just like –”

“President Johnson?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking. Do you get that a lot?”

“Yes, from time to time I do,” he responded once again flashing me his keen smile. I smiled back at him. He looked me directly in the eye, but not in an intimidating way. Rather, there was something about him that put me oddly at ease. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue tie. A white handkerchief peaked out from his coat pocket and I could see his cuffs poke out from under his jacket sleeves. He reminded me of my grandfather when he dressed up for fancy occasions. I wanted to ask him questions about the exhibit, but I glanced at my watch and saw it was already a quarter after three.

“I need to get going. It was nice meeting you Mr.- ”

“No need for that, just call me Lyndon,” he replied. He must have seen me give the room a last glance because he continued, “You should come back tomorrow. If you’re interested we can take a look at some of these rooms a bit closer.”

“Really? That would be great! See you then.” I was thrilled by his offer, thinking it would be interesting to hear a professional’s view on the Johnson Presidency.

After I left the museum all I could think about was going back. I got through the rest of my homework on my “to-do” list and attempted to clean my tiny dorm room. It struck me at around two in the morning that I knew very little about LBJ and I did not have any relevant questions to ask Lyndon about the late president. I certainly did not want him to think I was uneducated in history, especially when it was his area of expertise. I was a little surprised I had not thought of this earlier, but did not think there was any reason to worry because I could just Google him. Google-ing is the best solution to anything; if information is out there it can always be found on Google. I crept out of bed quietly as not to wake up my roommate.

I sat down at my cramped desk and flipped the switch for the tube light above my laptop. My eyes wandered around my room now lit by the dim yellowish light and I wondered how I got here. A year ago, I was beginning my senior year in high school with a world of options open to me. The endless ideas and possibilities available were quite overwhelming, and it took until almost late April for me to make the big decision to come to UT. Even as school started this semester I was still a tad uneasy about my decision. I was doing my best to jump into Longhorn life, but it was by no means an easy adjustment. If only I could be like LBJ, I thought, a leader who always appeared so at ease and comfortable in his position. When times were difficult he never ceased to stop impressing the American people with his dignity and calm nature. Here, at UT, I often felt uneasy and somewhat out of place. It was as if this small room was not yet my home, and I feared it never would be. My eyes shifted to my alarm clock in front of me which read 2:44 AM. I needed to stop daydreaming and take care of this research so I could attempt to get some sleep.

Google brought up, as it always does, a billion results. At this rate, this was going to be an even longer night. I decided to try something else. I went back to the welcome page and this time I typed “LBJ” and hit the “I’m Feeling Lucky” button. It took me back to the museum website, but as I shifted through the site I soon found an interesting article about LBJ’s early days as secretary for Congressman Richard M. Kleberg. At twenty-two he came to Washington D.C. with eager eyes, unsure of what waited there for him. He had moved into the Dodge Hotel, a boarding hotel for young congressional aids. The hotel was set up almost like a dormitory with a common bath. The first night LBJ stayed there he took four showers and the next morning he brushed his teeth five times. On first glance this seemed so silly, but then I realized what he was doing; this example was LBJ’s “networking” and “retail politics” at its finest. He was getting to know everyone on a person to person basis in order to actually gain their trust and support.⁶ Once he became acquainted with people he easily got to where he wanted to be. It was not even the idea of getting ahead which impressed me, but it was his ease in this new situation and ability to take advantage of opportunities. This is why I wanted to be like him and be comfortable in my new place. Hopefully, over time I would acquire this ability as well. I sat up for a while longer thinking about what LBJ was going through as a rookie in Congress. It probably was just like being a freshman at the University of Texas, full of unique but scary things. I wished I could ask him how he did it and how it felt. If only LBJ were still alive! Lyndon would be my closest link so I decided to see what he thought of the connection I drew from that time in LBJ’s life to this time in my own.

The following afternoon I wandered back into the museum, this time more concerned about LBJ than the heat.

“Are you looking for someone?” the docent behind the information counter on the first floor asked me.

“Yes, I think he works here. His name is Lyndon, I met him yesterday.”

“Hmm, I don’t know anyone named Lyndon that works here.” He turned to the women standing behind him, “Do you?”

She shook her head, and they both turned toward me, smiled and offered their assistance.

“Thank you, but it’s alright. I just want to look around for a little while.” Puzzled, I decided to head back to the tenth floor. I glanced at my watch in the elevator; I had a few hours to spare so I decided to go through all the exhibits on the ground floor that I had skipped yesterday. I still had a glimmer of hope to find Lyndon up on the tenth floor; it was possible he just worked up here and never met the docents from downstairs.

“I was hoping you would come back,” a voice came from behind me. I turned to see the same mysterious figure from the day before.

“Yes I was curious about this office, and about you. Do you work here?”

“Not exactly,” he stated. My smile disappeared and I felt a bit uneasy, but he seemed to sense that and clarified his statement, “let me properly introduce myself. I am Lyndon, Lyndon Baines Johnson.”

“President Lyndon Baines Johnson?” I was confused and looked about the room trying to figure out what could possibly be going on.

“Yes, that is me.” Once again he looked at me directly in the eyes and smiled, “I know what you must be thinking, ‘I can not believe this crazy man thinks he is a dead president,’ but it is me or at least the ghost of what I once was.”

“You’re the ghost of LBJ?” I glanced around the room to see if there was anyone else in sight, to hear me or possibly see what I was seeing.

“No one else is here, because I did not come back to see them,” he said smiling at me. “I came to see you.”

The last sentence by the “ghost” should have been a bit creepy, but for some inexplicable reason it was reassuring. A thousand questions were flowing through my mind, but I knew the answers would only leave me further confused. I attempted to push the questions about the ghost’s existence aside and focus on the opportunity. It struck me that I was standing face to face with Lyndon B. Johnson, the 36^th President of the United States. The idea of a conversation with one of the great leaders of our nation, a man who dealt with both excitement and adversity during a volatile time in the nation’s history, sent shivers down my spine. I glanced back toward Lyndon, smiled, and suddenly felt myself standing up a little bit straighter.

“Mr. Johnson,” I began with a shaky voice, “It is an honor to meet you. I don’t even know what to say…”

“Well, rather than confusing ourselves with formalities, why don’t we just start by talking about this room you like so much.”

“I would like that. Can you tell me about all of this?” I inquired pointing to the furnishings that surrounded us, “What makes it so important to you?” He glanced around the room as if in deep thought and I hoped my question was not somehow too invasive.

“This room,” he began pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, “this room is part of me. It’s like my childhood home in Stonewall, Texas. I remember everything that happened there so vividly. The rooms, the furnishings, really everything in that house was a part of me.¹ This office is just like that. I made some of the hardest decisions of my life here. It was by no means an easy place to be. ‘American’s believed that there was some magical place called the Oval Office. Every four years they elected somebody to go in there and they believed he had all these powers and he could do all these things that of course we know he couldn’t.’² In reality this office was a lonely place. The only one who could understand it was the person sitting behind the wooden desk. It is a very scary feeling to be the only person who sees the world from your point of view. On the other hand, there was something thrilling about that as well.”

View from behind Johnson’s Desk ⁱⁱⁱ

“Thrilling? I can understand that, I guess. I just began my freshman year here at UT and I feel very alone at times. It’s difficult jumping to that place where you’re the only one responsible for everything. It is almost surreal; no one else knows what you have to do, or why you have to do it.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “you have to figure it out for yourself, which is why we all need that sense of place. This room, the Oval Office, was my place, but it still at times feels unreal. ‘Perhaps the time will come when I will look back on the splendor of the Presidency and find it hard to believe that I had actually been there. But leaving it, I know I have been there, and I know I have given it everything that was in me.’³ Knowing that I did my personal best made every moment feel worthwhile.”

“It’s funny, right now I walk around campus at times questioning if I am actually here or not. If I belong here; if being here belongs to me, it’s like,” I struggled to find the words. “It’s like I don’t know where my place is. I enjoy being at the university, but I think the problem is that I question if the university enjoys having me here.”

“I can see where you are coming from. The last year of my presidency I spent many long hours in this room. ‘Nineteen sixty-eight was one of the most agonizing years any president ever spent in the White House. I sometimes felt that I was living in a continuous nightmare.’⁴ During that time, this room served as my sanctuary. I knew that I could come here, look at the facts, and know that I was doing my best, regardless of outsiders’ opinions. In retrospect, I know no one could have understood my position, but I also knew it was more important that I understood why I was here. ‘What you accomplish in life depends almost completely upon what you make yourself do…perfect concentration and a great desire will bring a person to success in any field of work he chooses.’” ⁵

Doing what you have to do. The simplicity of this statement connected his past memories with my daily experiences. My mind was still whirling about this when I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out to see that it was my mother calling from a world away from where I was now. As I pondered this thought I missed the call, but I then saw that it was almost five o’clock already. The museum would close soon. However, I did not want this conversation to end. The ghost, perhaps sensing my need to leave looked at me with concerned eyes.

“Time goes by much too fast, does it not,” his voice echoed that of experience and closure. “It’s not only your watch that is telling you it is time to go. You know, this room is an amazing place and while I would love to share it with you, I cannot. It is my place, but it is up to you to find yours. This place,” he stated while pointing out the window toward campus, “is full of adventures and opportunities for you to discover. You have to search, deep within yourself, to find out where it is that you want your place to be. You need somewhere that reflects who you are and helps you become who you want to be.”

UT Tower ^iv

Taking these words in, I smiled at the ghost and knew that it was time to say goodbye. Glancing for the last time around this historic office, I turned to exit the way I came in. This time the creaking of the wooden floor represented going back to my life, rather than morphing into someone else’s world. The elevator took me down those ten flights and I left the museum feeling content with myself.

As usual, the bus ride back after any adventure seemed shorter than the journey there. This was partly due to the exhaustion from the experience and partly with wanting to return to my reality. I looked out the window, out at the forty acres that is UT, and I felt at home. My place is not as concrete as LBJ’s Oval Office as of yet, but from our surreal conversation I do realize that the reality is in the present. It is up to me to keep looking out at the world and to give my best efforts for myself and my community.

Word Count: 3,157

http://webspace.utexas.edu/mkl267/LBJ/LBJ.htm

Works Cited

1. Doris Kearns Goodwin, Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream (New York: St. Martin’s Press 1991), 19
2. Horace Busby, The Johnson Presidency, Twenty Intimate Perspectives of Lyndon B. Johnson (Maryland: University Press of America 1986), 259
3. 1964-1969, Lyndon Baines Johnson Library and Museum, http://www.lbjlib.utexas.edu/johnson/museum.hom/museum_exhibit_pages/museum_exhibits/timeline/timpg8.asp.
4. Ibid.
5. Goodwin, Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream, 46.
6. Chris Matthews, Hardball (New York: Free Press 1988), 25

i. View of the outside of the museum, http://www.lbjlib.utexas.edu/johnson/museum.hom/directions.shtm.

ii. View into the oval office, http://www.lbjlib.utexas.edu/johnson/museum.hom/museum_exhibit_pages/museum_exhibits/ovaloff.asp.

iii. Ibid. View from behind Johnson’s desk

iv. UT Tower, http://www.utexas.edu/tower/.