Carte blanche to David Goudreault | To the imperfect model fathers

With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present to us, in turn, their vision of the world around us. This week, we are giving carte blanche to David Goudreault.

The revolutions follow each other and are hardly alike. We idealize some of them, we reject others. While technological, demographic and climatic upheavals threaten our existence, let’s take a few minutes to celebrate a small revolution that is repairing the world at the heart of intimacy: a historical emotional reinvestment of Quebec fathers.

Closer to our children than ever, more affectionate and invested, fathers learn to knit bond through attachment. The role of father has changed profoundly in just a few generations. For the best. All over the world, but especially here, and it’s documented. Let us be proud of this strong trend within our nation.

A recent Léger survey, dating from 2021, carried out for the Regroupement pour la valorisation de la paternité, put into perspective by journalist Louise Leduc^⁠1, shows that the role of provider still dominates among Canadian fathers (43%), whereas in Quebec, they consider themselves primarily as role models (48%) and as parents offering care and affection (45%). This observation could explain why, between 2012 and 2017, half of the fathers in our circles took paternity leave, compared to only 38% of their peers outside Quebec.

Go get a pack of cigarettes at the convenience store, and never come back, it’s becoming rare.

Even separated, fathers remain present, and shared custody is becoming more and more common, with marked growth over the past three decades.

Again, with a high prevalence in Quebec, where it is found two to three times more often than in the other provinces of Canada.

The figures speak, the professionals too. Educators, teachers and psychologists confirm an increased presence of fathers, an investment of time that they saw shortly before, both in support during school activities and in involvement in the boards of directors of youth organizations and CPEs. . The quality of the presence also evolves; although still representing a certain form of authority, men learn to welcome, listen and console.

I hope to be one of those. Every day, I learn to be a father, and that’s the role of my life. The one who will stay when I’m done playing writer, social worker, public figure. Around me, I have beautiful role models to help me become the father I want to be, but especially the one my children need. The nuance is significant.

My friend Martin, who has stopped messing around, using drugs, taking cocaine to better raise his two daughters, practically alone, as a single-parent in the bush. Without sparing yourself. Between the factory, domestic chores and meetings, for 14 years, I have seen him watch over his children with love and concern, a spirit of sacrifice and abnegation.

Jimmy, who accompanies his little Eliam hospitalized in Sainte-Justine for over a year, plugged into a mechanical heart. He finds the strength to raise his daughter, to love his girlfriend, to work and to mobilize the media on the importance of organ donation. Without forgetting to circulate a petition for Quebec to take inspiration from New Brunswick and introduce implicit consent. A father who fights for his own son, and all sick children too.

Pierrot, who does the emotional splits without batting an eyelid. Between the son he had barely out of adolescence, becoming a man himself, and his 6-year-old daughter, he finds room in his big heart to welcome his girlfriend and her two children, covering a wide spectrum of ages and parental responsibilities. With serenity and a broad smile.

The big Pierre, handsome tattooed lover of poetry, who floods my news feed with photos of his son with Down syndrome and bright.

These fathers who gravitate around me are grafted to those who live in me and have always accompanied me. My grandfather, Roger, who adopted and loved my father without restraint. A classic provider model, who built her house with her own hands and held multiple jobs to ensure that her children never lacked for anything. The only time I will have seen him cry will be when he evoked his own family not welcoming his adopted son to the height of the love he himself had for him.

And my father, always there, at the time when it was necessary to pick up my adolescence in crumbs, to pick me up at regular intervals at the police station, and now, to accompany me to galas. The first to read me, to criticize me, to contradict me, but also the last to condemn me, to abandon me. Despite the strains and knots, the bond never broke.

I don’t love anything or anyone like I love my children. I have their names tattooed on my wrists, in case I should think of opening them. Engraved in the heart, their laughter and their tears. To keep the essential in memory; despite the conflicts we will have, the fatigue that will overcome me, the impatience that I will regret, I have nothing more precious than the title of Dad. You have to be worthy of it.

Happy birthday, my peers!