The Flag-Bearer

Why not? When it comes to Jackie, Kennedy explains, access to the congressman doesn't extend to his family -- and Tancredo confesses that admission to the basement is something of a sore point with his spouse. After the uproar over the immigration status of his remodelers, the Rocky Mountain News did a quirky variation on a House Beautiful piece about the basement. Problem was, Tancredo didn't clear the idea with his wife before agreeing to the article and invited a reporter and photog to drop by when she was out of town. She would have hit the ceiling upon her return if it hadn't just been fixed up so nicely.

Since Jackie was inconveniently in town, another basement incursion would be problematic, but maybe not impossible. At his office in Centennial, Tancredo steps away from Kennedy, who's monitoring each word to make sure no other brushfires spark. Nodding conspiratorially, he says under his breath, "I'll get you in."

Tancredo's opponents may not be thrilled to hear it, but he doesn't exactly come across like a demon in person. He's funny in an intermittently dorky way, with a relaxed manner and a fondness for self-deprecation; in most cases, he'll ridicule himself before anyone else gets the chance. He can be excitable, waving his arms energetically when passion seizes him, but he typically exudes warmth and engagement, not intellectual chilliness. And he has a courtly, old-fashioned side. The vast majority of correspondence his office receives is positive, he maintains -- expressions of appreciation from the little folks, the usually silent majority, who know his immigration strategies are prudent measures designed to preserve and protect the American way of life, not disreputable proposals capable of warming the cockles of a Klansman's heart. Yet there are exceptions.

"Listen, you should hear some of the stuff that comes in on our recorder," he says. "And the letters! I've told Jackie, sometimes I wish we didn't have girls opening the mail, because of the language."

Truth be told, Tancredo has been known to unleash a profanity or two himself, but only after lowering his voice to make sure he's not corrupting anyone within earshot who has a delicate sensibility. At one point, he proclaims, "There are many good things about Congress, many enjoyable things about it. But there are also many" -- he whispers -- "shitty things about it, too."

Oh, yeah -- he makes a lot of comments that a more careful politician wouldn't, which opponents of Tancredo probably will be thrilled to hear. He admits that his actions can be deliberately provocative and invokes another John Wayne movie, 1959's Rio Bravo, to illustrate the process. During the film, either John Wayne or co-star Ricky Nelson (he can't remember which) plugs a bad guy, then turns to his opposite number and says, "That oughtta start something." He quotes this phrase to his staff whenever he's made a move calculated to get a reaction.

So, out of every ten times that something starts around Tancredo, how many of them are intentional?

After some silent computation, he says, "About five."

Once the CFRW members settle down and return to their seats, Tancredo begins his address with a story about his oldest grandchild, Thomas, whom he usually picks up on Friday afternoons at the Christian school the boy attends. One Halloween, he sneaked up behind Thomas and gave him a friendly scare, which the boy enjoyed so much that Tancredo now must hide from him each time. After exhausting pretty much every hiding place, he secreted himself behind the school's door as all the kids filed out. He was ready to pounce when he realized "that there were all these parents staring at me and thinking, 'Who is this guy? What is he doing hiding over there? Oh my goodness -- is that Congressman Tancredo?'"

The icebreaker out of the way, Tancredo begins his address by saying he has good news -- "If the election were held today, the president would win every state in the union, the U.S. House would be retained, and we'd probably pick up seats in the Senate" -- and bad: "The election isn't going to be held today." Next he offers his take on assorted hot topics. He hopes the elimination of the "death tax" and other congressional actions will get the economy going; he thinks finding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq is less important than capturing or killing Saddam Hussein and stopping the murders of allied soldiers in the region; and he says the Middle East crisis is a struggle between those who want peace and Islam. After a brief pause, he quickly amends "Islam" to "militant Islam." Don't want another "retard" flap, right?

Even so, what's most striking about this portion of Tancredo's speech is how rote it is. He's not fully engaged as he assays these matters, and the light behind his eyes seems switched off -- until, that is, he comes to illegal immigration. In a flash, his gestures are bigger, his delivery more forceful. This is what he really wants to talk about.

No one can say that Tancredo lacks a command of the facts that play into the immigration dilemma, and when he discusses how hospitals in certain rural areas may have to close because they've been overwhelmed by having to treat uninsured, undocumented workers, he does so in a way that his critics would have great difficulty dismissing out of hand. Yet these moments are interspersed with rhetoric sure to rev up those who consider him to be a simple xenophobe, including his gripes about what he calls "this cult of multiculturalism that permeates our society -- the idea that there's nothing unique about America, that there's nothing special about Western Civilization, nothing really worth fighting for. It's just a bunch of dead white guys..."