by Allen West
MORE PRAISE FOR GUARDIAN OF THE REPUBLIC
“Guardian of the Republic is not simply the title of this powerful book. It’s what the founders demanded of each of us: to be sentinels for freedom. Allen West is such a soldier. From the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan to the combat of Capitol Hill and beyond, he has fought tirelessly and fearlessly for the American idea. This is a passionate clarion call to restore that idea—‘the last best hope of earth,’ in the words of Lincoln—before it’s too late.”
—MONICA CROWLEY, PhD, host of The Monica Crowley Show and New York Times bestselling author of What the (Bleep) Just Happened?
“Allen West is an interesting and impressive man, and he tells a gripping and fascinating tale. Read it. You’ll learn about war, politics, America … and life.”
—WILLIAM KRISTOL, editor, The Weekly Standard
“Guardian of the Republic is a refreshing account of one man’s journey—through obstacle and opportunity and aided by faith and family—to become a warrior for the future of the American republic. Allen West’s story is rooted in education, self-reliance, and a relentless sense of purpose. He strips away the pretenses of liberalism and reminds us what’s at stake if we continue to make the wrong choices. Most inspiringly, he offers readers an invitation to stand strong on behalf of those values that have defined generations of Americans.”
—MICHAEL STEELE, former chairman of the Republican National Committee
Copyright © 2014 by Allen West
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Forum, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
CROWN FORUM with colophon is a registered trademark of Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-8041-3810-9
eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-3811-6
Jacket design by Michael Nagin
Jacket photography by Jeffrey Salter
v3.1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part I: My Conservative Roots
Chapter 1: Early Lessons
Chapter 2: Shaping Operations
Chapter 3: My Warrior’s Code
Part II: Conservative Principles
Chapter 4: Philosophical Foundations
Chapter 5: Governing Principles
Chapter 6: Pillars of Conservative Thought
Chapter 7: Conflicting Philosophies of Governance
Part III: Conservatism in the Black Community
Chapter 8: The Soul of Our Souls
Chapter 9: The Big Lie and the Twenty-First-Century Economic Plantation
Chapter 10: The Hunt for Black Conservatives
Part IV: The Future of the American Republic
Chapter 11: Republic or Democracy
Chapter 12: The Dilemma for the American Republic
Chapter 13: Servant Leadership Versus Self-Service
Part V: Conclusion
Chapter 14: Bravo-Foxtrot-Oscar
Photo Insert
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
What would I like you to take away from this book? My goal is simple: to provide insight into who I am and the journey that brought me here today.
Scores of reporters, journalists, pundits, bloggers, opponents, and strangers have done their darndest to paint a particular picture of me and typecast me to fit their narrative. In this day and age, when “news” and “reporting” have become tools to further an agenda instead of the means of presenting the facts, it’s not always easy to communicate the truth.
So rather than offer a conventional autobiography, I’d like to share with you my philosophical beliefs and the reasons why I love this country and why I shall fight wholeheartedly and fearlessly for the future of our republic.
My story actually has its roots centuries ago in Japan.
I’ve always been drawn to the warrior spirit and the code of the samurai. But it is the ethos of the ronin that truly resonates with me.
During Japan’s feudal period, from the late 1100s to the late 1800s, a samurai who lost his lord or master, either through the master’s death or the samurai’s loss of favor, was known as a ronin. It always struck me as poetic that the word ronin translates literally to “wave man”—someone who is adrift.
At the loss of his master, a samurai was bound to commit seppuku, or ritual suicide, according to the Bushido, the code of the samurai. Those who chose not to honor the code were shunned by other samurai and feudal lords as outsiders. In such a rigid social structure, the path chosen by a ronin was not easy, as his desire to serve couldn’t be met. Ronin were forbidden to be employed by another master without the previous master’s permission.
Despite their outsider status, ronin were permitted to remain armed and carry two swords, but they were barred from employment in a different trade. As a result, some became bodyguards or mercenaries, while others drifted into crime. Regardless, lacking the status or power of honorably employed samurai, ronin were viewed as disreputable and became targets of discrimination. In other words, it was highly undesirable to be a ronin.
So why do I call myself an American ronin?
I lost my own earthly master—my father—early in my life, when I was only twenty-five years old. My father was my ultimate role model.
Herman West Sr. was a warrior himself who served his country in World War II. He raised me to be a strong, principled man, uncompromising in character, and to believe that service to our country was the highest honor. These same principles were reinforced by my mother, Elizabeth Thomas West. Sadly, my mother died just eight years after my father, in 1994, when I was thirty-three years old.
As a young man without the guidance and loving support of his parents, I could have easily lost my way and eschewed the foundations on which I’d been raised. But like the ronin who continues to carry his swords and practice the way of the warrior, I pledged an oath never to succumb. I vowed to continue in the service of my nation.
And just like the ronin, I have remained an outsider, hewing to the code by which I was raised.
My parents, my earthly masters, had brought me up as a conservative in every sense. They encouraged and championed my commitment to conservative values. Now I stood alone. I soon experienced the ronin’s sense of undesirability, humiliation, and shame. I was treated as persona non grata not only by those who didn’t share my views but also by some in my own African-American community.
Because I refused to succumb and live my life according to other people’s code, I was cast out. But the one thing that continues to burn in me is the desire to live up to the standards of character and excellence taught me by my parents.
This book is a testament to my parents, Buck and Snooks. I hope it serves to strengthen other parents who are raising their own American warriors—warriors who must press on and embody the code and principles their parents impart.
I will strive to explain those principles and the fundamental beliefs of this, our beloved republic, so that all who read these pages will come to respect and honor the American ronin. For we are the ones who continue to live honorably. We are the ones who serve and protect the republic, pledging our swords in the defense of her values, security, and dignity. We are the ones who, in the face of attacks from others, are emboldened to stand stronger and with greater resolve.
I am honored to share the defining moments in my life, my philosophy of governance, an examination of my own black community, and my thoughts on the future of our republic—a republic that now
more than ever needs a certain breed: an American ronin.
PART I
MY CONSERVATIVE ROOTS
Chapter 1
EARLY LESSONS
Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he shall not depart from it.
—PROVERBS 22:6
It’s March 2013, and I’m looking out over the Caribbean Sea as waves lap the shores of Grand Cayman. This is my first visit to the Cayman Islands, and I will certainly return at some point to dive the famous reef walls.
But my purpose for this trip is to attend the Young Caymanian Leadership Awards gala this evening as keynote speaker. It’s an amazing journey that has brought me to this place on this day. From the far reaches of Iraq during Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm, to the forbidding terrain of Afghanistan during the early 2000s, to the storied halls of our nation’s capitol in 2011, to this moment in a fancy hotel in the Caribbean—I never could have imagined leading such a life given my simple origins in the inner city of Atlanta.
I was born in February 1961. It was a very different America then. Segregation was widely practiced and hotly debated. The possibility of a black president was unimaginable. That summer, a little over six hundred miles south of my hometown, on a beach in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, there was a protest called the “wade-in.” A group of civil rights activists joined hands and waded into the whites-only beach off Las Olas Boulevard to protest segregation.
But times do change. Fifty years later, in January 2011, I was sworn in as the United States representative for that very same beach in Florida’s Twenty-Second Congressional District.
When considered together, these two seemingly unrelated events—a wade-in and a man pledging the oath of office—testify to the exceptionalism of our republic, the same type of exceptionalism that my parents instilled in me from a young age.
When I was growing up, my mother taught me a simple maxim: “A man must stand for something or he will fall for anything.” That sentiment may well have guided a young man born a bastard on the island of Nevis in the British West Indies not far from Grand Cayman, where I am writing this book today. Somehow this young man made it to a place where he could seek his own destiny. He fought in the Continental Army for the independence of a fledgling country soon to be called the United States. He became a member of the Continental Congress. He was a cowriter of what must be considered the greatest political document ever written, the Constitution of the United States. Ultimately he became the first secretary of the treasury of America. His name was Alexander Hamilton.
America is indeed a great land of dreams and opportunity. This fact is as true today as it was in the time of Alexander Hamilton.
In my case, my opportunity—and indeed my destiny—was to uphold this republic, first by serving in the military and then by serving in government. As an American ronin, I hold steadfast to my beliefs, no matter what challenges or obstacles arise in my path. In 2012 I sought reelection to the US House of Representatives in the newly drawn Eighteenth Congressional District in southeastern Florida. To say the campaign was hotly contested would be a gross understatement. I remember being in the city of Port Saint Lucie at an early-voting site when a black woman came up to me. She asked if I was Allen West. I don’t know how she could have been unsure about that, but in any event, I knew from her tone of voice what was about to follow—and she didn’t let me down.
As my fellow black American looked at me, her face began to distort and she screamed, “How could you do this? How could you be one of them? Your parents are ashamed of you. You are not a real black person.” My response? Just a smile, a simple smile, because this woman was forgetting completely the best aspect of America: free will. Obviously she didn’t understand that I am, and continue to be, exactly what my parents raised me to be. As Solomon said in the book of Proverbs, “train up a child in the way he should go”—in other words, our lives are shaped by our early lessons, and I was fortunate to have parents who taught me to exercise freedom of thought.
I was the middle son of Herman and Elizabeth Thomas West. My parents were affectionately nicknamed Buck and Snooks, and for the sake of this book, that’s how I will refer to them from now on—even though they would’ve whupped me silly if they ever heard me call them that.
I never knew my grandmothers. They both passed before I was born. My granddads were Jule Wynn on my father’s side and Samuel Thomas on my mother’s, and both were rocks of men. My grandfathers had soft-spoken demeanors, but they commanded respect and admiration for their comportment and wisdom. As a child I loved going down south to Cuthbert, Georgia, to visit Granddad Jule. Granddad Sam lived over in southeast Atlanta. You could see Lakewood Stadium and the fairgrounds from his backyard. I also spent lots of time visiting my Aunt Madear down in Camilla, Georgia. From these wise men and women, I learned to cultivate the cornerstone of character: respect. Often I would simply sit and listen to them tell their stories, but they also demanded that I talk to them and tell them about my life. Nowadays children are allowed to stay absorbed in their keypads and headphones, but I was taught at an early age how to communicate, listen respectfully, and appreciate the insights of my elders.
They’d take me fishing or out to pick pecans (properly pronounced in southern vernacular as PEE-cans) or peaches (to this day I don’t like peaches because of the incessant itching caused by peach fuzz). Sometimes they’d have me walk with them to local stores and make me carry the bags—a practice that today is sadly considered “old school.”
Madear and both granddads have gone on, but I will never forget Granddad Jule’s description of me as a young kid. He told my father, “Buck, that boy Allen of yours is as stubborn as a mule sometimes, but he is a good boy.”
My dad, Buck West, was born in 1920 in Ozark, Alabama, but he somehow managed to jump the Chattahoochee River over to Georgia, where he grew up. Dad stood about five feet eleven inches and wore a flattop high and tight—which is why I wear the same haircut to this day. Buck was a soft-spoken but direct man, loved by all with whom he came in contact. His word was his bond, and you could always count on him. Dad served in World War II as a logistics specialist. I was enraptured by his stories of North Africa during a time of war, of the Anzio beach landing in Italy, and of the time he went to Rome and saw the Vatican.
Dad was wounded in Italy during a Nazi bombardment. He had been running dispatches on a motorcycle (now you know why I ride). He experienced severe head trauma and remained in a coma for a spell. I’ll never forget the first time he allowed me to touch the bumps left on his head.
Dad came back to America and met and married his first wife. They had my older brother, Herman West Jr., whom we all knew by the nickname “Pootney.” Unfortunately Dad’s first wife passed away, but he eventually met my mom. Rumor has it they were really good dancers—but I can assure you that’s one area where I don’t take after Buck West! Dad worked as an insurance agent for a time but eventually, after marrying my mom, got a job with the Veterans Administration hospital in Atlanta.
My mother, Snooks West, was born in 1931 in south Georgia. I’m unclear about the geographic particulars—she was born in the vicinity of Fort Valley and Perry, but she spent time growing up around Camilla. For me, Fort Valley was her home and where the folks on my mother’s side lived.
Both my parents had relatives in the Albany-Camilla-Thomasville area of Georgia. As a young kid, I thought my mom’s family had founded Thomasville, since Thomas was her maiden name. Mom went to Fort Valley State College and was a public school teacher for quite some time. As it happens, my high school girlfriend’s mother had been taught by my mother (and yeah, that made for some awkward moments).
Mom and Dad moved to Atlanta sometime around 1959 and found a home in the historic Fourth Ward. They bought a nice two-story house at 651 Kennesaw Avenue Northeast, a small street between Ponce de Leon Avenue and North Avenue. The house is still there, and whenever I’m in Atlanta, I go by and relive memories. My mom’s younger bro
ther and sister, Uncle Sam and Aunt Brendalyn, also lived in our house and were like older siblings to me.
Our small street was a little oasis of families, two-parent homes, kids, and a real sense of community. In those days the treat for us youngsters was playing street ball while the old men sat by the sidewalk, told stories, and watched over us, warning us of oncoming cars. As we grew older, we would go to friends’ houses to watch the old men play checkers. If you want excitement, watch a group of older gents compete at checkers like we did. I truly believe that their banter was the genesis of trash talking.
Our neighborhood included the Heards, Jacksons, Rowes, Martins, Davenports, Littles, and Washingtons. While the men played checkers, the women would sit out on the porches and talk. There were times when the old men would let one of us young ones step up to the checkers table. They knew it wouldn’t take long to smash us, and it didn’t. Most times I remember them spanking us in about four moves. Bam! And it was over. Then, of course, came the trash talking to our dads about not teaching us to play—but at least teaching us how to take a whipping.
Back then there was no hiring folks to cut your grass or wash the car. We young fellas developed a sense of business by competing against each other for grass-cutting and car-washing jobs. I learned about pricing and providing services in the free market at an early age. You could cut grass, but then someone would undercut you by offering lawn edging. You could wash a car, but someone would also offer to sweep the inside and give the interior a good leather shine. Success was about competing for and getting the job and then doing it so well that you were the one in demand. My angle was to tackle the big jobs, such as the backyards where the kudzu vines grew. And that’s how I spent my Saturdays growing up—grass cutting and car washing.
