would be a willingness, a desire to function as a nation.”
“Check,” Pump and Jay said in unison.
Fanon’s book sprang back into my memory. “This Algerian writer, Franz Fanon? He claims a colony can only win independence through armed struggle. Nationhood can … it can never be a gift of the imperial power, but must be won militarily.” I tried to recall more. “Otherwise, Fanon says, the new country is still hopelessly tied to its colonial past.”
“Pretty bloodthirsty concept,” Edward said.
“Look at the difference between the U.S. and Canada,” I continued, warming to the theme. “The U.S. won its Revolutionary War. Canada’s revolution against the British in 1837 was crushed. Which is unquestionably most a country?”
“Checkmate, regardless,” Edward purred. “The Woodstock Nation isn’t into armed revolt.”
“I didn’t ever think of Canada as not a country,” Jay said. “Isn’t that where the cold weather comes from?”
I grimaced. “Also Zal Yanovsky of the Spoonful. Neil Young. Paul Anka, if you remember him.”
Pump appeared agitated by the turn the conversation had taken. “You can’t have a nation without war? I don’t fucking believe it.”
“The Woodstock Nation could be the first,” Jay insisted.
“That’s just Fanon’s theory,” I assured him. “Nobody really knows how you’d prove it if you —”
“The war business makes sense, come to think of it,” Edward said. “All those Commie countries are the result of violent revolution — Russia, Cuba, Red China, Vietnam.”
“The Panthers also say liberation of the black colony in the U.S. will only occur once blacks are armed,” I said.
“You wouldn’t believe in the Woodstock Nation unless it goes to war?” Pump asked.
Edward smirked. “I doubt anyone would seriously claim a nation is a series of rock concerts.”
“Nobody’s saying that, man,” Pump burst out. “It’s how we live that’s the Woodstock Nation.”
“Why not the Bowling League Nation then?” Edward needled. “Or, think of Willow and Phil — why not the Surfer Nation?”
“Nothing else will convince you the Woodstock Nation is real?”
Jay began to roll a number. “Leave it alone, Pump. Eddie’s on a negativity trip.”
Edward raised his hands, palms upward, as if to appeal to reason. “A Woodstock Nation might be a nice dream. But I’ve worked in advertising.”
“What would make the Woodstock Nation not just a scam for you?” Pump persisted.
Jay fired up the joint. “Pump, you’re not going to convince him.” He took a drag.
“Some act of nationhood,” Edward said. “Other than attending rock festivals, growing your hair long, and smoking dope.”
“What kind of act?” Jay demanded.
“It would have to reveal a determination to be a nation,” Edward mused. “Something tangible, maybe even confrontational. Not simply buying concert tickets.”
Pump took a hefty hit off the joint and passed it to Edward. “Such as?”
“You tell me. This is your baby.” Edward, retaining smoke from the doobie, proffered it to me.
I waved it off. As the effects of the hash dissipated, I was increasingly weary. “I should be headed home. It’s pretty late and it’s been a long day.”
“You’re welcome to crash here,” Edward said.
“Thanks, but it’s my first night back. I’ve been looking forward to sleeping in my own place again.”
Jay took the joint from Edward. He and Pump seemed preoccupied, churning over in their minds the test Edward had proposed. “It can’t be war, yet has to show the Woodstock Nation’s serious about being a country,” Jay muttered, then inhaled deeply.
“You have any ideas?” Pump asked me.
I shook my head.
“We don’t have to prove nothing, man,” declared Pump after a silence. “We are a nation. Who cares if that isn’t good enough for Edward? He’s not God.”
“Wait a minute,” Jay said, smoke streaming out of his nose. He handed the number to Pump and turned toward me. “You said the Chinese orbited a satellite?”
“Edward brought it up,” I reminded him. “But, yeah, this summer. It broadcast —”
Jay had swivelled toward Pump. “Didn’t you say the satellite was for national pride?”
Pump nodded, looking quizzical.
“That’s it!” Jay cried. “Let’s put up a satellite in the name of the Woodstock Nation.”
Edward laughed. “You’ve flipped. Wigged out completely. I suggest a lengthy stay in a certain facility I know where you can weave these nice baskets and —”
“No,” Jay insisted. “We can do it.”
Pump was staring at him, mouth ajar.
“Why stop with a satellite?” Edward mocked. “Why not land a hippie on the moon? ‘It’s a small step for a head, but a giant leap for the Woodstock Nation.’”
“We can do it,” Jay repeated.
Pump abandoned an attempt to relight the doobie and put it and his matchbook on the deck. I noticed his hand shaking. “You’re not thinking of the Revere?”
“Affirmative.”
“Jesus,” Pump breathed. “The Sitton site?”
“Affirmative.”
“It could be done. It fucking could be done.”
“What’s the Revere?” Edward asked.
“Jay’s right, man,” Pump said solemnly. “We can do it.”
“We even used to joke about launching one of those birds,” Jay added.
“Let’s do the thing, man — a Woodstock Satellite,” Pump said, chuckling.
“How about it, Eddie?” Jay asked. “If we orbit a satellite in the name of the Woodstock Nation, would that make a believer out of you?”
“‘Then I saw it in space,’” Pump sang, parodying the Monkees’ “I’m a Believer,” “‘now I’m a believer. Without a trace of doubt in my mind —’”
“You
