Simonee Chichester investigates the life of her homeless father, Edgar Chichester, who left when she was six years old. 23 years later, Simonee journeys to the streets of Brazil to reunite with Edgar in the hopes of understanding him and herself.

Chichester's Choice began pre-production in 2002 and went into full production in early 2003. The film was shot in Toronto, Guyana and Brazil with a Canadian crew. It has received support from The Canada Council, Toronto Arts Council and The National Film Board. The film will be released in spring of 2007.

In the summer of 2003 Foreign Affairs Canada called to tell me that my dad had a severe, possibly fatal case of tuberculosis. It had been 23 years since I had seen my father Edgar Chichester. He was living on the streets of Sao Paulo, Brazil and I never understood what led him to a life of despair and poverty. Was it alcoholism? Was it my overbearing mother? Was it his painful memories of the past?  Was it me?  I always knew that one day I would have to deal with my scars of abandonment and learn about the man who is my father. Now with his impending death, the time had come. It would mean traveling to Guyana where he was born and grew up, and then going to Sao Paulo to find and hopefully  reunite him.

As a child I was in love with my dad. He was a stylish charasmatic man who won over every one he met. He wasn't shy about sharing his opinions on just about anything from politics to social issues; he was outspoken and straight up - just like me. As a kid when I was bad my mom would yell, "You're just like your father". What if I was just like him? What did that mean? I knew I was flawed, but was I also destined to not realize my dreams and become a failure?

My mom, Neusa Goss and Edgar Chichester were married in Brazil, where my mom was born; and then moved to Canada.  As a newly married interracial couple, Toronto in the 1970s was a challenge. Neusa would hear comments like, "You're so pretty; you didn't have to marry a black man". This was tough for the talented man who loved photography, and had dreams, dreams that were buried by the regime of the nine to five world. The demands of a "normal" life led to the break-up of our family and the breakdown of a man. My dad's drinking escalated and his behavior became intolerable. He dangled my cat over the balcony, 21 floors up, and shot his BB gun at the wall for fun. After eight years of marriage filled with infidelity, neglect and Edgar's alcoholism, Neusa asked Edgar to leave.

Driving my dad to the airport was a surreal experience. I remember being told he was going away and even though I was only six years old, I knew it was serious. I sat in the back seat watching my dad and mom unload suitcases. The voice in my head said, "Why aren't we getting out of the car and going inside to see him off?" He gave my mom a hug, came over and tapped me on the head and said, "You be good and take care of your mom". I had no idea that would be the last time I would see him.

As I made my way to the airport I remember the drive I made 23 years ago. I knew my dad was leaving and it felt serious. It was a surreal experience. I sat in the back seat watching my dad and mom unload suitcases. The voice in my head said, “Why aren’t we getting out of the car and going inside to see him off?” He gave my mom a hug, came over and tapped me on the head and said, “You be good and take care of your mom”. That was the last time I saw him.

Arriving in Guyana was sad and exciting at the same time. Now more than ever, I was feeling like a stranger to my dad. I had never known his land before and I felt cheated that he wasn’t here with me. Whenever I asked my mom about my dad’s childhood in Guyana, she would tell me what she knew and it sounded horrible. His 14-year old mother, Gladys Chichester, was the maid for his womanizing white father, Carlos Gonsalves. Carlos gave my dad to his wedded wife, a barren white woman and said, “You can’t have them, so mind this one”. Edgar watched Carlos go on to father and raise six other children with an Indian woman in the house across the street. My dad’s half-siblings were close to him, but I was sure that he struggled with being the only black child in the family. His skin was a constant reminder of the inappropriate affair. 

In Guyana I saw my dad’s favorite hangouts and talked to family and friends. I found out that my dad was a source of entertainment. He was known around the neighborhood for reenacting scenes from his favorite movies. My Uncle Andre recalls how talented my father was, “He could have been an actor.  He would act out everything, all the characters, even the coming attractions”. Edgar loved the attention; in truth he craved it. As I walked through an old shack that my dad used to perform in, I felt overwhelmed by the spirit that was once there. I remembered being a kid and acting out all my own movies as I tried to escape the pain of living without my father. I wondered if my dad was trying to escape anything? My final stop in Guyana was with my dad’s brother Ricky. For days, Andre had insisted that I visit with him because he was my dad’s favorite brother as well as his drinking buddy. During a visit with uncle Ricky, I heard the shock of a lifetime. He told me that my father had tried to rape me, and that’s why my mother had asked him to leave. Was it true? I couldn’t remember anything. I left Guyana with devastating stories from the past, stories that could destroy my future. I would need to be strong to continue my journey to Brazil.

My mom was coming to Brazil with me for support and while I needed her, the dynamic of our relationship was tiring. My mom and I have had a close, passionate, complicated relationship, and over the years the stress around my dad leaving made for a codependency that I would constantly try to break free from. I snapped at her regularly and she constantly seemed disappointed in me. And after Guyana, I was angrier than usual with her.  Had she deliberately hidden my own past from me? When I finally confronted her about my uncle’s claim that my dad had tried to rape me, she vehemently denied it. I just didn’t know what to believe anymore. I knew I still wanted to find my dad, but how do you reunite with your father after 23 years of separation, and interrogate him at the same time.

Friends and family in Brazil talked to me about my dad’s life on the streets. Over the years Edgar had shown up at their doors dirty, begging for food and shelter. When he was let in, he would overstay his welcome and disrupt their families with his drunkenness, becoming a burden. Eventually he would end up on the streets and he became a regular at certain shelters and when he couldn’t get in, he slept on park benches, in cemeteries or sneaked into busy, hospitals where he could hide and somehow blend in. The stress in me was building as I listened to one story after another. I feared who I might meet if I ever did manage to find my father.

We had been in Brazil for almost two weeks visiting shelters and listening to people share their stories about my dad. I found out that my dad was a regular at a homeless shelter in the suburb of Osasco, Sao Paulo. I made visits to that area, driving through the neighborhood, surveying the streets from a safe distance.  The last thing I wanted was to bump into my dad by chance. After a couple of visits, I headed to Osasco on foot. I stopped at café after café, asking about my father, talking to people in the neighborhood. People had told me I would have no problems finding him, he was the popular Canadian and well liked despite his unfortunate circumstances. Once again my father was winning people over. But after a half-a-day, I was starting to question whether we were in the right area; no one seemed to know an Edgar Chichester.

Finally at a convenience store a customer overheard my broken Portuguese. He told me that my dad was known as the homeless Canadian and led me to a barbershop where Edgar apparently passed the time.  The barber immediately knew whom I was talking about. He was excited, “He talks about you all the time,” he said. He couldn’t wait to reunite me with my father who was sitting only doors away. I was shocked; I wasn’t expecting that he would be so near by. I wasn’t ready. Had this moment finally come? How would he respond? Would he recognize me? I had already decided that I wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t. It had been 23 years.

Meeting my dad was different than I had imagined it. As I knelt down in front of him and told him who I was I couldn’t for the life of me remember all my questions. I hugged him and it was a moment of perfect clarity.  He wouldn’t let me go.  He held me tight, long after I had tried to end the embrace. Everything else about this journey had been confusing, but this moment wasn’t. My dad loved me and was relieved to have me in his arms. Suddenly the answers I was seeking didn’t seem important, although I knew I would be asking them later. But for now I would enjoy and for once try to live in the moment rather than control it.

After our long embrace I tried to find a spot where we could rest and talk. I wanted to be with my dad and slowly ease into my questions but he had other plans. My dad’s agenda involved one thing; he wanted to show me off. He spent the next couple of hours walking me around the entire neighborhood introducing me to people.  It was clear to me he needed to prove that I, and his former life wasn’t a lie. Everyone was shocked; they thought they had this homeless guy pegged.  “This is your daughter?” so many said, in disbelief.

As the days passed I had decided that I would not confront my dad about the alleged sexual abuse. Part of me believed my mother and another part was overwhelmed by the fact that my dad was fragile and my time with him was limited. I feared knowing that maybe my uncle was telling the truth and I didn’t want what might turn out to be my only time with my dad to end in angry words. Over the next two weeks, I only wanted to spend time with my dad. But, my mom was in Brazil and our relationship was strained after the confrontation over my dad’s alleged abuse.  I felt I couldn’t isolate her. Earlier my mom had told me that she didn’t want to see my dad but friends, curiosity and her concern for me changed her decision. The meeting between my mom and dad was incredibly tense. In some ways it was surreal, my mom masked all emotions into a compartmentalized box of smiles and over politeness. I had no idea how to make the situation one I could stand to be in other than to just ride it out.

For the remainder of the trip my mother, father and I operated as the weirdest of families. We ate out together, took my dad shopping and ended our days by dropping him off at the shelter. At times he would walk away into the night and I hoped that he wasn’t lying about where he was sleeping. I couldn’t believe that this was my daddy’s life. Not having a home, the same clothes day after day, roaming the streets to fill in the time before he was allowed to check into the shelter. As much as we tried not to, my mom and I got sucked into trying to help him. We knew there was no way we could bring him back to Canada but maybe we could improve his life in Brazil.

He had been sober for a year while in the hospital being treated for tuberculosis, could he finally make a life for himself with a little help from us? I hoped so. My dad needed ID and various papers so that he could work. Over the years he had lost countless documents. The Canadian Consulate had come to know him as the homeless
Canadian and a Consular there was more than familiar with his case. She was also taken by his charismatic ways and his obvious potential. She shared her stories and explained how many times my dad had denied help. The story around people’s frustration with helping my dad had become familiar to me and I too was becoming frustrated and disappointed.

My time with my dad was proving to be more revealing than any answers he could give. I found a charming, loveable man who was impossible to help. Everything my mom and I tried was matched by Edgar’s denial and lack of accountability. His actions inevitably spoke louder than his words. He stood us up, got drunk and I knew that the dreams I had for his life were mine and not his. He was constantly looking for somewhere to run and at times I couldn’t see what was plainly in front of my face. Maybe all my questions wouldn’t be answered but one thing for sure, my father had chosen his life and in response I needed to say goodbye and create a space for understanding, forgiveness and acceptance.

A year after reuniting with my father, on February 11th, 2005, Edgar Chichester died in the streets of Sao Paulo, Brazil of Tuberculosis. He was 56 years old.