By Amina Blackwood Meeks, Contributor 
Blackwood Meeks
LOUIS MARRIOTT'S Bedward, playing at the Ward Theatre, is powerful. As theatre. As
history. As motivation. As testimony to the levels of excellence of which we are capable.
But that is what we have come to expect of good theatre. But it is the reminder that we are all endowed with the gift to fly that marks it as a defining moment in theatre in Jamaica at any time but more so at this time, in the year 2004, when more and more of us are beginning to realise that just about any of the social and economic problems that confront us may be linked directly to the fact that we have strayed far from our essence.
Part of that straying is in the betrayal of the men and women who have sought, if not to be our conscience, to encourage us to map our own path to survival, triumph and success throughout our sojourn on this rock.
METAPHOR OR REALITY?
In Marriott's production, Bedward lives and dares us to embrace our gift to fly. Like other gifts, it has the potential to become power if we understand why we have been entrusted with it and determine to utilise it to its desired ends. Well, that is the conviction with which I left the theatre.
Did Alexander Bedward really believe he could literally fly? Did R. Kelly? Do all the Jamaican children who sing his every line, 'I believe I can touch the sky, I think about it every night and day, spread your wings and fly away?'
Do revivalists and Rastafarians as they sing, 'One bright morning when my work is over I will fly away home?'
And I am not even asking whether the Angels of the Christian Bible did or still literally fly. But maybe it does raise questions about why we found the idea of flying coming from a poor black man, without benefit of university education or the right socio-political connections so full of lunacy. Or was it sedition?
Well, the state could not quite make up its mind either. And reacted with the fear and dread of those who panic about losing power which needs ignorance on which to thrive.
Whether Bedward literally believed that he could fly, or used the concept metaphorically to mean accomplish anything, why did he fail?
To what extent was the failure, such as it was, rooted in the self-doubt that took hold and prospered at the appointed hour, so to speak? You know, if Louis Marriott produced this play at a different time he might find himself sharing Bedward's fate cornered by the state and locked away.
PRIDE
The life of Bedward, such as has been revealed, and the theatrical production give us more than enough to chew on about a history which has taught us to doubt ourselves at critical moments in the past and at this moment in 2004.
Part of that self-doubt surrenders to what is trendy and popular, what is 'the hype'?, a little phrase I have yet to find meaning in or have explained by its proponents and adherents.
I saw Bedward in the company of approximately 800 Jamaican students, which is to say the division of culture, had worked to bring out capacity crowd for a special showing. The children covered the range of ages from prep schools to secondary schools and the mix of socio-economic groupings that one would expect to find in such a group. Yes, I saw him, the man, and the students saw him too.
You could touch the pride, the nationalism. You could see the awakening, long before any discussion with them revealed their horror that they had never been told about this man, the August Town experience and its reach across the globe. Except with scorn and derision, of course.
As they overcame that they sang every number of every beautiful note crafted by Noel Dexter. They cheered wildly every time Winston 'Bello' Bell in the title role took the stage, and many of them would have taken the stage themselves and wrested him from the arms of the law if given half a chance.
The director of culture informed me that a similar group of students on another occasion gave the production a standing ovation shouting 'Bedward! Bedward! Bedward!'
EXCELLENT PERFORMANCE
Our children understand excellence. They crave it as form as much as they crave it in substance. We do them, this country and ourselves a great disservice when we lead them to believe 'the hype' of whatever is passing, the trend of lewdness, the nonsense that because they are young, they are by definition little more than restless and adventuresome and should indulge this moment of unthinking abandon.
In time, a Louis Marriott brings a Bedward along to a place they could rest and reflect, embrace the values which are enduring, and contemplate, maybe not too kindly the space in which this other way of viewing the world would not have been made available to them.
A space with the possibilities of Bedward and Howell, Nanny, Sam Sharpe and all the teachers of the enduring lessons that don't quite reach the volume of the hype.
In that sense, Bedward also challenges us about not just what is taught but fundamentally, about how it is taught.
Every Jamaican child deserves the opportunity to see Bedward without having to travel great distances at great expense. And they deserve to see it in the company of their parents and teachers, some of whom might not have been exposed to that little page in our national photo album before.
But who will find the resources to make that happen around the countryside, like resources are found for Bacchanal, let's say? Would somebody should pay for Bedward as the spectacle that the Music and Heritage Committee contemplating, a grand pageant full of every Jamaican musical form, of history and symbols that define cultural tourism, of the aspirations of people to fly?
The more we learn about ourselves the greater that probability. That's how Patrice Malidoma Some defines ritual that safe place of ecstasy with no harmful side effects, that space in which we remember and re-learn what we can be.
Thank you, Bedward. Thank you, Louis and cast, and thanks to the Division of Culture.
And by the way, Maria Smith, choreographer, my revivalist father who left this plane a year ago came and sat beside me in the theatre and told me how pleased he was with the movements.
