The structure of indigenous fathers is different. Our traditional role-to provide, but most importantly, to survive-is in our DNA and passed on from generation to generation.

In the pre-colonial era, those generations had to survive the cold winter. They had to survive more than 150 years of genocide—just as a boarding school destroyed family institutions—from the government and the church.

Unfortunately, many people did not survive. Those who do continue to live without language, culture or parenting skills allow future generations to heal and recover.

Fortunately, many aborigines today have begun to restore their language and culture, and relearn parenting skills.

There are many indigenous fathers who take their fatherhood seriously. They are our modern warriors and true role models for our community. They are often forgotten because they never ask for credit and are not conceited. They do this for their children and their families.

These indigenous fathers are not always (IMHO) the chiefs or merchants you hear most of the time. Sometimes, it is the janitor, front-line chef or college student who is doing the work of providing and survival.

My father Alan Rose is one of those special native fathers. He is a single father who raises three children on his own budget while attending college.

This is not always the case. There was a time when we had a strong and caring family unit, but my parents divorced when I was eight years old. In a short period of time, it was only me and my father. We healed together and finally reunited with my sisters. Once again, we are a family.

My dad likes basketball. One thing saved him. His growth process was rough, but once he fell in love with the sport, he began to thrive. He has played organized basketball for most of his life. He was even recruited by the University of Saskatchewan Huskies, but rejected them in order to raise me and my sisters. That was his sacrifice.

He will continue to be a teacher. He coached many basketball teams and coached young athletes who later became world champions.

He also inspired many children through his teaching. They achieved success in life and became great moms and dads.

He also fell in love with my stepmother Ruby again. They gave birth to four more children and they became my little sister.

He died in 2015 at the age of 60.

Before my children grew up, I never knew how much I would miss him in my life.

I have two children, four and seven years old. I raised these little people without the guidance of the people who raised me. Thankfully, I also have my dear mother Helen Gavin, who has always supported me very much.

My father left me only memories and the lessons I learned while watching him raise three children on his own. I learned something from the examples he set. This is why I take my fatherhood seriously.

I now find myself in the same scene, but my lover Tasheena and my children are by my side. As my children grow up, their needs become more expensive and becoming an entrepreneur is no longer financially reliable. I need stability. So I bid farewell to the fast-paced business life and returned to full-time school to learn skills in order to find a job in the creative industry.

This is my sacrifice for the children.

As an aboriginal father, I started to understand that this is everything. It is no longer about you; it is about them and their needs. This is no longer about honor, self or reputation, because your child doesn’t care about it.

They only care about you. You are their superhero.

As indigenous fathers, we are modern warriors, but in order to be this, we must go back to traditional ways to teach our sons and daughters about their culture and how to take care of their families. The meaning of providing, surviving and restoring the indigenous people is to respect our ancestors.

This is what it means to be an indigenous father. These are Dad’s ways. This is what makes aboriginal fathers special.

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