to I CHRONICLESnPERSPECTIVEnSHORT VIEWS by Thomas FlemingnSome people love to go to Washington. The sight of sonmuch power and wealth is exhilarating, especially fornyoung conservative writers who discover that their namesnare recognized on the Hill. For many, however, thenreaction is just the reverse. Within a few hours they arenmulling over certain scriptural passages in Eliot—“Oh mynpeople! …” they are tempted to exclaim. The worst partnof the Washington experience is the nativist feelings itntriggers in ordinarily tolerant Middle Americans.nFlying from O’Hare to National is always a jolt. In lessnthan two hours you’ve gone from the USA to the ThirdnWorld. Even the American faces look foreign—subtle,nsleek, and vaguely sinister. If you are lucky, the cab driver isna Jamaican who speaks a kind of English. Otherwise, henmay be an Ethiopian who wants to take you to his cousin’snrestaurant. He overcharges outrageously, but there’s somethingnabout the look in his eye that discourages a quarrel.nFor the next several days you will be treated to Mexicann^i “‘fe– •*. , jn• ‘Tf-.-^ f^^n’•A i»- “1 •*. , • .nnnwaiters who don’t speak English, Pakistani drugstore clerksnwho don’t speak English, congressmen and bureaucratsnwho speak no dialect known to linguistic science. By thenend of the trip you may be shocked to find yourselfnmuttering nativist remarks that would have sent yournmother into paroxysms of indignation. But after a few daysnback in the safety of Tennessee or Montana, the airnpollution is washed off and you’re ready to try an Indiannrestaurant or listen to reggae.nActually, I’ve never been able to endure reggae, and I’mneven beginning to lose patience with foreign food. How canna man remain a patriotic American, I ask my wife bendingnover the steaming wok, if his digestion is unsettled by anculinary World War III? Dim Sung for Monday lunch,nfollowed by Saltimbocca for dinner; on Tuesday it’s porkncarnitas with red pepper and lime juice, refried beans, andnMexico’s best German beer—Bohemian; on Wednesdaynwe eat Indian—a vitriolic barbecued chicken, a yogurt,ncucumber, and raw onion raita washed down with Chinesenbeer (it’s the closest thing drinkable, geographically) andnPepto Bismol. By the end of the week you don’t know whonyou are.nI took one nativist acquaintance to a superb Greeknrestaurant in Ghicago, and he professed to be ill for 24nhours—probably an inner-ear problem: he’d lost his sensenof balance. If you want to meet a real nativist, talk to almostnany black resident of Washington. Since they are in directncompetition with the newcomers for low-paying jobs (whosenwages are kept low by the constant influx), their resentmentnis easy to understand. One young lady, a bureaucrat, toldnme she always tried to block grants to “non-Americans,” bynwhich she meant immigrants: Weren’t there enough Americansnlooking for Federal money? If Washington weren’t ourncapital, I suppose, the shock would be less. Part of thencharm of New York and San Francisco lies in the riot ofnpolyglot cultures elbowing each other on the street.nAll of these shameful reflections are obviously part of anWashington hangover, but in a larger sense, some of usnmust be getting tired of hearing how our lives are beingnenriched culturally by the current influx of immigrants.nAmerica is a nation of immigrants, we are told ad nauseamnby Lee lacocca, who will recite Emma Lazarus’ repellentiynsocialist verses at the drop of a hat: “Give me your tired,netc.” Somebody out there obviously finds the hoopla funny,nor at least they think our children will: The Cabbage PatchnKids includes an “Alice Island,” holding a sack of money innone hand, a bag of garbage in the other. By now, perhaps,nwe could do without much more “huddled masses.” Bynnow we might be more in the market for talented engineers,nbrilliant artists, and the courageous and competitive spiritsn