www.CMasonWeaverforCongress.com
IT’S OK TO LEAVE THE PLANTATION
BY C. Mason Weaver
First published (1996)

Chapter One

My Journey from
Liberalism to Conservatism

“Victory comes to the faithful, not to the strong stay faithful.”
Mason Weaver

My journey from a Berkeley liberal to a conservative has not been a
difficult one. I have not changed; America has changed. I would still be a
militant revolutionary today if there were still “colored only” signs allowed.
If police could still openly abuse us with no recourse, I would still be
marching. Had the poll tax and grandfather clauses still existed, you would
find me still protesting.
This journey came about as America turned towards her conscience and
began to realize her principles. There is still racism and discrimination, but
that is not the point. The point is that there are no longer “legal” barriers.
The civil rights movement was a struggle to remove the “legal” barriers and
allow equal opportunity to all. What it has turned into is equal opportunity
for all to be under the master. Now, black and white people are on the
plantation together, depending on government as the master.
It seems like all we have managed to achieve is better programs from the
master. The struggle was not for better government programs; it was not
about a better plantation system. It was about getting off the plantation.
Instead of freedom, more of us are enslaved. We have more government
control over our lives than ever before. However, there is one thing different
about this plantation system: it depends on volunteers. We now have the
right to participate in the American dream.
By 1968, I was tired of a system that called me names and expected me
to accept it. I was tired of a country that would allow me to fight in her wars
but not allow me full access to her economic system. I was tired of a nation
full of hate, guilt and greed and no love for itself. The America of 1968 was
a tired place to be and one that needed to be changed.
I entered the military because racist teachers would not allow me to enter
college. I endured openly racist military officers and enlisted men, and still
obtained promotions. Finally, I began to associate myself with other
frustrated and angry black men. We compounded our anger and began to
look at ourselves as victims of a slave master instead of military men. The
old saying “misery loves company” is true, and we continued to look for
reasons to be unhappy with our condition. We began to protest our condition
and treatment, then demanded recognition and respect. We began to change
things on board ship in a small but very important way.
The ship’s library began carrying black authors. The bookstore began
carrying black products and even the captain recognized that the “Afro”
hairstyle was important enough to change our haircut regulations. I was
beginning to think that talking to “the man” would make him aware of the
harm he was doing, and that would cause change. We were beginning high
school completion courses and even college credit courses on the ship. We
were improving community relations by working with children as their
mentors. I thought it was really working out. I continued to think that way,
until someone dropped 2800 pounds of metal plates on me. The official
Naval investigation recorded the weight of the “accident” as 1700 pounds of
steel and iron.
The official investigation did not happen until I insisted from my hospital
bed. It occurred weeks after the event and missed some things, including
approximately 1000 pounds of aluminum, black iron and even chicken wire
that fell. Only I and one other person on that ship realized what had really
happened, and we both knew it was no accident!
I ended up disabled and separated from the Navy, living with my uncle in
Richmond, California. Although I was in constant pain, I enrolled into
Merritt College in Oakland California. I had back and hip injuries that kept
me from prolonged periods of sitting, walking or standing. I was angry, and
I blamed the racist conditions on that ship for cheating me out of four years
of training. I could no longer work as a welder, shipfitter or pipefitter
because of my permanent disabilities, but I was not going to be a bum.
All of us can remember important historical dates in our lives. The day of
JFK’s assassination, Pearl Harbor, and man landing on the moon will stick
in the minds of all who lived through those experiences.
Personal dates like marriage, the birth of a child, or the death of a loved
one will also forge permanent memories for us. I have one such a memory
which I reflect on every anniversary. I may not think about it during the
preceding week, but on August 11, I always find myself sitting and thinking
about that morning back in 1971.
I was a 21-year-old sailor away from home, free of parental control,
strong and enjoying my career in the Navy. I had a hard job as a shipfitter,
pipefitter and welder. I lived off base and enjoyed a full social life with
many friends. That year I purchased my first car, rented my first apartment
and was beginning to find my place in society.
My job was demanding: welding heavy metal plates and fabricating
steam piping for other ships. This work kept me in top physical condition. I
was learning a marketable skill and looking forward to a rewarding job at
one of the busy shipyards when my discharge came the following year.
However, my discharge was not to come that year. I was never to work as
a shipfitter or pipefitter again. After August 11, 1971, I would never pick up
a welding torch, bend pipe or ever cut steel again. On that date, at 9:05 in the
morning, someone tried to kill me and nearly succeeded. That someone was
a known racist who preached race-hatred on board ship. He targeted me out
of anger for my political activities on the ship. He was in a position to drop
those metal plates on me because of my willingness to work with someone
who considered me their enemy. I did not know he was my enemy–just that
he was my competitor. It was almost a fatal error.
I never had a problem working with competitors; they made you stronger.
I had served in Vietnam and understood the difference between a competitor
and an enemy. An enemy was to be destroyed without mercy. You could not
work with him, compromised with him nor tolerate him. The enemy was to
be challenged. I had also played sports and understood genuine competition.
No matter how strong the competition was, you could play by the rules and
even learn from them. You never wanted to hurt the competitors and never
considered them evil. To me this shipmate and I were competitors, not
enemies. I did not think he hated me.
That Wednesday morning I looked into his eyes as he released 2800
pounds of steel, black iron and aluminum plates to fall on me. As I turned to
run, they caught me on my left hip and pinned me against the wall on my
right side. The force hit me with such power that it crushed my
fiberglass/steel helmet against the wall. With broken ribs, ruptured spleen,
crushed pelvis, and hip and back injuries, I found myself screaming in pain.
My eyes were shut, closed in agony, as the total weight settled on me. When
I opened my eyes, I was staring at him. Only he and I knew what had really
happened. The look in his eyes was one of unemotional contempt. It was the
expression of someone who had finally gotten rid of an annoying fly or rat.
That expression fueled my racial hatred and anger for years. That expression
caused me to give up on compromising. I was then determined that no one
would ever be in such a position over me again. I understood that to some
people (even shipmates), I was considered an enemy.
The next few weeks I would spend at Balboa Naval Hospital in San
Diego. My career was over, and I lay in that bed broken and in pain. It is
strange how your priorities can change so quickly. That fateful morning I
had been wondering if I would get a home run on the softball team that
following week. One hour after work began, I was longing to just take a
deep breath on my own.
One moment I was a strong, young, self-reliant man, and the next
moment I was dependent on strangers to wet my dried tongue and feed me
soup through a straw. I could fill this book on the things we take for granted.
I could speak only in a whisper because the vibrations of my voice would
hurt my back. The nervous tapping of visitors at the foot of my bed was like
a sledgehammer up my spine. I never knew how everything focused on your
back.
Nevertheless, I had to set goals–or face a lifetime of lying in that bed. I
used to stare down to the end of my ward where I found my two new goals
in life. At the end of the ward were a door and a water fountain. The door led
to the men’s room, and the patients used the water fountain. My goal in life
became very simple! One day I would walk to that fountain, take a drink,
and enter that door, on my own.
It may seem strange having such goals, but you must start somewhere.
Depending on others to feed you, clean you and even exercise you will
create the most simplistic goals. I eventually took that walk and it was the
coolest, smoothest drink of water I have ever had. I eventually gained
control over my mind and body and walked out of that hospital. However, I
would never be the same man.
Gone was that boy from the foothills of the Ozark Mountains, gone was
my childish innocence. Gone was the nonchalant wait for the future–my
future had come crashing down on me in more ways than one.
From that day forward for the rest of my life, I will suffer some kind of
pain. The Navy eventually classified my injuries as permanent and
discharged me. I had to retrain myself by enrolling in college, and doing so
either on medication or in pain. I admit to having much anger against the
person responsible. I knew it was racial and I allowed that to cause me to
become a racist person.
My hatred was irrational and could be kept alive only by irrational
thinking. That person did not represent the white race–how could I then hate
the entire white race? White shipmates rescued me that day. White people
gave me first aid and took care of me in the hospital.

Even in my radicalism at Berkeley, I knew hating was counter-productive
for my future. It was eating me up and preventing me from learning and
developing. However, the pain would not go away. Every day it was there
reminding me of that day in 1971. Some days I used a cane, other days
medication, but always the pain and restriction on my life were there.
However, as the years have gone by, I have found something greater than
racial hatred. It is called forgiveness. I had reason to hate; therefore, I also
had the power to forgive. I could have accepted this attack upon my life as a
reason to attack back at White America. I could have allowed that person to
direct my entire life. However, once I tried forgiveness, the weight of hatred
was lifted off me. I found it weighed much more than 2800 pounds. The
Biblical principle of forgiveness works and was freedom for me. It took a
spiritual heart transplant to give me a forgiving heart.
I am writing about this spiritual, Biblical, Christian change because I am
hearing the demands for an apology for slavery. White people and black
people are debating whether descendants of slave owners should apologize
to the descendants of slaves. As a person once tied up with those emotions, I
have a suggestion. Instead of waiting for the apology, try forgiving. Instead
of demanding that the master’s descendants recognize the harm, try releasing
the legacy, in forgiveness.
If we became a forgiving nation instead of an apologetic one, we would
also become a victimless one. Once I understood how much I had been
forgiven, it was also clear how little in comparison I could forgive others.
Many people may want to know what happened to the sailor who
dropped 2,800 pounds of metal on me. Others could be interested in the
official investigation of the incident.
I do not consider it very important. The story is not so much about my
accident but about forgiveness and the freedom such action will give you. I
am offering some alternative solutions on the current debate over an apology
for slavery. If someone thinks they have been harmed by society, that person
has more power to forgive than to insist on an apology. I have no control
over someone else’s apology, but I can control my own forgiveness.
I used the story of a racist shipmate’s attempt to kill me to illustrate the
years of hatred I endured along with the constant pain of my injuries. I went
through college as a radical student at UC Berkeley and blamed White
America in general–and that racist shipmate in particular for the lost
opportunities of a healthy life.
The Navy has classified me as permanently disabled and the pains of
those injuries will be with me for the rest of my life. I have no control over
that, but I do have control over my reaction to it.
No disciplinary action was taken against him, but everyone on that ship
knew that any incident involving this man and me would never have been by
accident. We both had reputations of being militant and antagonistic toward
each other. At the time, I was a black racist, he was a white racist, and we
spent many days debating the racial issues that existed in 1971. I considered
myself a supporter of the Black Panthers, and he seemed to think the white
race was superior. It still did not dawn on me that he was a danger to me. I
did not have any personal feelings toward him one way or the other. I felt he
was wrong politically and thought we had inspiring debates over our
differences.
Looking back, the officers should have never allowed us to work that
closely together something was guaranteed to happen. After my accident and
with the suspicion of the crew, racial tension tore the ship apart. Many of my
militant friends were bent on revenge, and the normally dangerous job of a
shipfitter became unbearable.
That ship was a microcosm of America in the 1970’s and the America of
the 1990’s. It was truly a “multi-cultural” ship with diverse beliefs and
understanding. It was not a “Navy” culture; it was black, white, northern
and southern culture. We were never united. We disliked each other because
of our differences. I do not want to live in a country like that.
That man did not want to kill me; hatred influenced him to act. I can look
back through the pain and anger and clearly see he was remorseful. I believe
he wanted to say he was sorry, but his pride and mine did not allow it. When
my shipmates visited me in the hospital, he was with them. I knew he was
uncomfortable and could not make eye contact with me. As I have said, only
he and I knew. Looking back, his harshness was gone. His militant stance
was much softer. He had tried to kill someone out of hatred and it had an
effect on him. From my hospital bed, I asked him the question–however, we
both already knew the answer. “What happened?”
There must have been twenty other sailors around that room visiting me.
With the racial tension of the ship as high as it was, they all fell quiet for his
answer. “What happened,” I repeated my question to the hushed room. “I
don’t know, I don’t know!” The answer came in a whisper almost inaudible.
Gone were the boldness, the pride, and the superior attitude. Looking back, I
believed he recognized that he had tried to kill a competitor, not his enemy.
I have never spoken another word to him since then, and I have no idea
what has become of him. However, I hope he has found release from his
pain as I have from mine. I hope that he has discovered the power of
forgiveness. As he has grown into maturity, I pray he has grown to forgive
himself. It would be a terrible sentence for him to go through life believing I
still hated him. If we can forgive our former enemies of war and work with
them, why not forgive the men we served with in war?
If my grandfather can work with the Germans he fought against in
Europe, if my father can live with the Koreans, and if I am to see my country
trade with Vietnam, what is a little disagreement between shipmates? How
long do we keep the pain? How long do we fight the war? How long do we
hold on to the hate? I have never had the chance to tell him, but… Allen, if
you are out there, my friend, I have forgiven you.
Once I forgave him for the pain and agony he had caused me, I began to
look at the anger I had for others. I still hated white people for their
ancestors’ actions. Clearly, I needed to work on forgiving more than just an
old shipmate.
However, that forgiveness had to come after my discovery of who I was
as a man, as an American and as a Christian. I was in an environment that
did not encourage forgiveness, only victimhood. Our emotions were being
used by people who had other goals in mind.
Communists, feminists, revolutionaries, anti-capitalists and every other
group that needed a weak and divided America joined into the call for civil
rights. They marched with us, met with us and pretended to understand us,
but they did not want what we wanted. We wanted freedom; they wanted to
become the new masters. Because the nation and the community were so
easily led by their emotions, rational thought was shut out of the debate.
There was a lot of money and power in managing the down and out. It was
usually given to people and organizations that would have never gained such
power without the problems.
Soon other groups began to organize for funding and benefits. If you
were a victim, you got special treatment without the hard work. If you
belong to a victim class, jobs, contracts, education and housing were opened
to you. You did not have to be black; you could be female, handicapped,
poor, a gang member, an immigrant, drug addicted or under-educated.
However, what you could not have been was self-reliant, ambitious and
certainly not a member of the rich, male, white elitist group.
The San Francisco/Oakland Bay area of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s
was the worldwide center of this victim movement. I was sucked into the
system out of its pure power, but it did not fool most of us.
I began to understand “poverty managers.” My Democratic friends
understood one thing. If you put poor people in one location, you are
guaranteed to accomplish certain things. Despite the rhetoric, you are
guaranteed to breed poverty, drugs, gangs, teen pregnancies and high
unemployment. You are also guaranteed to breed “Democratic voters.” I
looked and could never find a “poor neighborhood” voting Republican. The
liberal Democratic friends of mine understood, the poorer the community the
stronger its vote for them. Did the Democrats really want poverty? They had
the statistics–the more money the people had control over the less need they
would have for the liberal leadership.
As my senior year came, I began to lose confidence in the liberal’s good
intentions. I wanted to look at the results of their policies not their promises.
Once I looked, instead of following the emotional ranting, the rest was easy.
Because of my Black History training, I understood the plantation
system. I understood the mechanism put in place to keep the slaves
dependent upon master for every daily need. Because I understood it as a
system of control, not a system of racism, I was able to recognize it when it
was used against White America.
I saw all of us Americans being tricked back onto the plantation of
dependency. I watched as they attacked our schools by not teaching, only
indoctrinating. No constitutional training on government doctrines such as
the Constitution or Federalist papers. I watched them encourage sexual
activities for the young, insuring poverty and thus dependency upon the
government masters. I watched as our leaders surrendered American
sovereignty to overseas competitors by limiting the competitive edge of
American entrepreneurship, research and development. I watched so much
government regulation, control and restrictions that no one had any real
freedoms left. We were all becoming slaves, and I fought against slavery.
Why were we building the old plantation system again? Why are we
accepting the master’s system? I recognized the system and it was
colorblind. It did not care about your race, sex, or culture–only your fears
and dependencies. We all were acting like sheep and the master was the
sheepherder. I waited for the leaders to lead; I waited for the announcement
that we were not going to allow America to be surrendered. I waited in vain
for those demanding to participate in America to recognize she was being
destroyed. I was not fighting for a return of the old system.
Merritt College in Oakland was considered the founding location of the
Black Panther Party. Huey Newton, Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver and
others supposedly started the party while attending thethat college. The
reputation of the Party was strong, and its influence was felt even by the type
of instructors on campus.
My history requirements were met by studying the history of Africans
who were kidnapped to America as slaves. My foreign language
requirement was Swahili, and I joined the new age of black awareness and
culture. I wore my dashiki, Afro hairstyle, dark sunglasses and an attitude.
Although I hung out at the unofficial Black Panther headquarters at Jimmy’s
Lamppost in Oakland, something was different. I still did not feel the total
anger with America as everyone else did. I thought it was because I was
older than most of the other students and had been to Vietnam. That was
only part of it, though. The rest was a total distaste of blaming others for our
condition instead of concentrating on solutions.
All I heard from the liberal professors, civic leaders, politicians and
preachers was failure and hopelessness. At Merritt College and Berkeley I
took many Black history courses and lectures and felt I had a complete
understanding of my culture. When I applied for my degree from Merritt
College in 1974, they asked me when I would be applying for my second
degree. I had taken so many Black history courses I qualified for a degree in
that discipline as well.
I heard the professors state that Democrats were the party for the poor
and Republicans were the party for the rich. Which one would I want to be?
Eventually it dawned on me. If Democrats really thought their power and
votes came from poor people, would they not want as many poor as
possible? If Democrats thought Republicans gained power when people
became rich or had the hope of becoming rich, would they not want to stop
this? I saw all of the “get the rich” laws and restrictions and wondered if
they were not simply placing barriers on black people becoming rich.
I began fighting for equal rights, not special rights. I demanded to be
independent, not codependent. I resented the call of the tribal chiefs that I
must follow them; I preferred to follow God. Since God follows no man’s
race or culture, why should I? But with all of the disillusion, with all of the
hopelessness, my education gave me one thing: confidence. Once I knew all
of the things we had done as a people, all of the things we had struggled
through, I knew nothing could stop us except ourselves.
I was working for California Democrat Congressmen Pete Stark and
George Miller and felt their liberal policies were rooted in great intentions
and even some personal sacrifices. Nevertheless, I was waiting for someone
to recognize the results—they were killing us. Welfare was worse, crime
was increasing, education was beginning to fail, and everyone wanted more
of the same. I was waiting for someone to say not only what we were doing
was failing, but also it seemed some were profiting from it. Nevertheless, no
one was saying it, and no one was speaking the truth. I lost all confidence in
the political and social leaders of the 1960’s and 1970’s. I felt they were all
social pimps keeping the people on the plantation.
Finally, I graduated from the University of California at Berkeley in
1975. It was the hardest thing I had done. In three years (from the winter of
1972 through the summer of 1975) I had overcome severe pain and physical
disabilities and obtained three college degrees. I had studied all night,
taking a full load and more, plus summer school and financial burdens, and I
had conquered it. My self-esteem was at an all-time high. I was the first of
my parents’ children to enter college or the military. They were focusing on
my life as an example to shoot for and we all benefited and celebrated. But
as soon as I went out looking for a job, I found condescending white
employers and applicants asking if I received my college degree from
Berkeley “by Affirmative Action.” They assumed my degrees were not
received by hard work, intelligence, or self-determination but by some
benevolent white program allowing me to compete with them.
I then obtained a job with the Department of Energy and became a Senior
Contract Specialist. There I was with a Confidential Security Clearance and
negotiating multi-million dollar government contracts, still facing white and
black people assuming my education and job came by the graces of
Affirmative Action. I began to realize what I only had a hint of in college:
we had been tricked back onto the plantation. The victories of the civil
rights movement had been stolen by smiling faces and promises of help by
government programs. Every problem in the black community became a
problem only a government program could fix. We were no longer picking
cotton but allowing our votes to be picked by one party. We found ourselves
on an inner-city plantation run by black overseers (black leaders) who went
to the master (government) for us. We found ourselves dependent on Master
for jobs, education, medical benefits, and even permission to like ourselves.
Black Americans had begun to prey on each other out of frustration and
despair. Our plight was worse than the original plantation in many ways.
At least then we married the mother of our children, and our wives did
not have to fear the men. At least during slavery, the community considered
education an issue worth losing their life over. Today, not only are we not
willing to die for good education, we will not even go down to the school. I
watched the things I had fought for come into existence only to see the
people going back to the plantation. It reminded me of the children of Israel
complaining about the harshness of the desert.
Some wanted to go back to Egypt and not on to the Promised Land.
Well, I was going to the Promised Land and no tribal chief or white
slaveholder was going to stop me. I had seen too much and had gone
through too many sacrifices to give up on my people and myself. No one
was sounding the alarm; no one was giving the information. I felt like the
lone child standing on the street watching the parade and saying, “the
Emperor has no clothes.”

Everyone knows this system does not work for us; everyone knows it
works only for the plantation system. My hope is for someone to stand up
and shout, “IT’S OK TO LEAVE THE PLANTATION!”

11 years old-1961–Moved from the city to the country

18 years old – graduating from boot camp 1968

“Bwana Mason,” freshman in college-1972

Marcella & Weaverly Weaver Jr., Mason’s Parents

U.C. Berkeley-Graduation 1975

Mason with Congressman George Miller