Guardian of the Republic: An American Ronin's Journey to Faith, Family and Freedom

“Rarely have timeless conservative values been articulated and defended with this sort of clarity and vigor. And rarely does one come across an individual like Allen West, whose personal code is one that, if we were all to emulate it, would make us stronger as a nation. Guardian of the Republic is a book to savor--entertaining, fearless, and fun." -Mark Levin, New York Times bestselling author of The Liberty Amendments and host of the nationally syndicated “The Mark Levin Show” “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 Committeexa0"Those familiar with Allen West already understand why he is one of the most controversial and compelling figures in American public life. This potent little book will show all others that the passionate reactions to his principled work are based on substance, not just style." --Michael Medved, host of the nationally syndicated “The Michael Medved Show”“Thorough in his analyses, Allen West in Guardian of the Republic offers a unique perspective on our country. Informed by his dedicated military and public service, West provides a compelling defense of the conservative values he believes must guide the debate as we confront the political, economic and social challenges that face our nation.” --Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense and New York Times bestselling author of Known and Unknown and Rumsfeld’s Rules " Guardian of the Republic is not simply the title of this powerful book.xa0 It's what the Founders demanded of each of us: to be sentinels for freedom.xa0 Allen West is such a soldier.xa0 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 passionatexa0clarion call to restore that idea---"the last best hope of earth," in the words of Lincoln---before it's too late ." ---Monica Crowley, Ph.D. Fox News Channel, news analyst, Host, nationally syndicated radio show, "The Monica Crowley Show" New York Times bestselling author, What The (Bleep) Just Happened? ALLEN WEST was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia--in the same neighborhood where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. once preached. He is the third of four generations of military members in his family. During his twenty-two year Army career he commanded troops and deployed to several combat zones. He was elected to Congress in 2010, representing the 22nd district of Florida for one term. A frequent commentator on Fox News and a sought after speaker, he lives with his family in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Michele Hickford is a writer and communications strategist. She has held senior positions at Turner Broadcasting and USA Networks, and served as Congressman West's Director of Outreach and campaign Press Secretary. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1Early LessonsTrain up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he shall not depart from it.--Proverbs 22:6It'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 brother 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.On Sunday there was only one place you were going to be, and that was church. Several churches stood proudly all along "our" Boulevard. My family's church was Fort Street United Methodist Church, where I also attended Sunday school. Every Sunday the nine a.m. parade of residents would leave from our little street, cross North Avenue, and head over to Boulevard, where we'd stop off at our respective houses of worship.Church was where you made your other group of friends, especially for me, because many people in our congregation came from all across the Atlanta area. Only severe sickness could get you out of church. Even if you were visiting extended family elsewhere, you were not going to miss Sunday services. When I stayed with relatives down in south Georgia, I was certainly going to church--no way was I going to embarrass my mom and dad by not attending.But it wasn't just the weekly sermons and Sunday school lessons that taught me the fundamental principles of faith. I remember the ol' "Mothers of the Church." Trust me, in church everyone was your mother--in fact these ladies were allowed to smack you. The elders of the church were my surrogate dads. Disrespecting them at times could be worse than disrespecting my own father.Back in the old-school way, a child was an extension of the parents. The child reflected the parents and their parenting skills, and you as the child were their calling card. I remember being down in Cuthbert and going out somewhere. When I was walking back to my granddad's, I didn't speak to any of the folks sitting out on the front porches. I had no sooner hit Granddad's first step when my dad greeted me with a whack. It had already gotten back to him that his boy Allen was disrespectful and did not properly greet his elders.Buck was a quiet man, and I learned never to have a negative effect on his impeccable reputation, especially in his hometown. You can bet from that moment on, I learned to say good morning, good day, good afternoon, good evening, sir, ma'am--and that lesson resonates with me today. In fact, it's a courtesy I demand my own daughters practice.Mom was the real disciplinarian in our home. I saw Snooks West as a benevolent dictator, and I mean she was tough. Mom was an old-school southern woman with a soft, sweet voice and dialect. She stood around five feet six inches but had a demeanor that made her seem six feet tall. She was the standard-bearer, and she demanded excellence. Dad and Mom had separate bedrooms, but they loved each other. It was just that Mom, as the ultimate independent woman, wanted her space. Truth be told, Mom was a tad bit, well, messy. But she was a first-class woman and loved to dress, and it's no surprise that her closet was always overflowing.Mom was thrifty, however, and she never believed in owing anyone. Her favorite place to shop was Sears, Roebuck, which was right down the street on Ponce de Leon. Remember layaway? That was Mom's preferred means to get something she wanted. And she was not about to overspend. Instead she would set the money aside, little by little.When Mom went to get herself a new car, she paid in cash. She would go to the dealership and find what she wanted. When the sales guy asked about payment plans, Mom would softly say, "How much is the price, child?" and proceed to write a check.My dad was equally thrifty. I found it hard to believe how incredibly savvy my mom and dad were with finances. They were careful investors and could make a dollar stretch like you cannot imagine. If they were on Capitol Hill today, our federal budget would be balanced easily. Read more