The Portal to Change is a Mirror: A Kōrero with Chlöe Swarbrick

While a fresh name to the placards, she was by no means unknown. Chlöe had garnered immense publicity for her candidacy for Auckland Mayor the year before. Like any fresh university graduate, Chlöe’s need for change was sparked by a disillusionment with ‘The System’ (cue thunder). 

Long story short, she says, “I was really pissed off.” The fracture began during her time as a journalist at bFM. For four years, she interviewed countless politicians, community workers, creatives, all-round cool Auckland people doing cool stuff.

Then, at the end of 2015, she interviewed the top four candidates for Auckland mayoralty. She noticed that ‘The System’ (cue thunder) seemed to “disable cool things from happening,” but none of the candidates wanted to discuss it despite her grilling. She walked away both politically and culturally disillusioned by ‘The System’ (you get it now). It became clear to her through her interviews that “everything is made up, it’s all bullshit. We can demand so much better, because what we’ve been served is a politic I don’t think we deserved.” 

She bemoaned all of this to Lillian, her good friend and producer, and she just had one thing to say: “Shut up, Chlöe! Do something about it!” 

So like any young revolutionary, she started her quest for change with a simple Google search: ‘How to become the Auckland mayor.’ One would think the process would involve miles of red tape and extensive political endorsement. But, to her surprise, it was rather simple: you have to be a New Zealand citizen over 18, have two people from your ward nominate you, and cough up $200 for admin fees. 

It was a true shoestring budget, with her good friend, Tom Dyton, shooting most of her campaign content. The bulk of her campaign was funded through bootleg “Vote for Chlöe” merch in the style of Napoleon Dynamite’s “Vote for Pedro” ringer tees, totaling $5,000 alone.

In the end, Chlöe had placed third in the mayoral race. A considerable landmark since she was mostly counted out by all the major players. The New Zealand Herald was the biggest culprit, giving her only one sentence in their 23-page election guide. She jests to me that she would even invite herself to debates, “and they’re asking, ‘Who is this kid? They’re not even polling.’

The joke was clearly on them as we shared chuckles on a cream (pre-owned) leather couch on her Swarkland HQ clubhouse on Karangahape Road. It’s a gigantic open space, with a large wooden table to the right of us that seats James Shaw and Marama Davidson. They’re distracted answering emails and coordinating campaign appearances. We’re surrounded by the rest of the Crushes team, who all wore green in solidarity. Rose and Gen are snapping candids of me and my new best friend, while Charlie is just there for the ride. 

It’s Chlöe’s second time running for Auckland Central MP after winning back in 2020. But we’re here to discuss small talk such as her philosophy of change and the community that helps her create it. 

At the start of every campaign event and meeting, they do “very hippy” check-ins with attendees and volunteers. How are they? Where are they at? They say “anything that they have to say in order to be present,” Chlöe tells me. “Bring yourself with your flaws intact and we can figure out how we vibe and create this bigger thing together.” 

And so, I ask Chlöe, in our intimate couch chat surrounded by all our colleagues, the same question: how are you doing? She lets out a sigh.

With knitted brows, Chlöe explains “I’ve been having a real anxious moment recently. I’ve been trying to think about where and why that’s come from.” She looks a little to the ground, searching for an answer. “I guess it’s the inherent unsustainability of a role like this that places so much burden on an individual. It becomes super unsustainable if it lives or dies on the hubris of an individual - as opposed to being this force for solidarity and helping people find their common interests. It needs to be so much bigger than anything one such person could create themselves.”

She lifts her chin, “But I feel like, so, so good when I come into a space like this and the community we’re building. The other night [at our regular Sunday core organizer meetings] we had 20 people at that, and I was like, oh my God! This thing is huge!”

The postcarding events, especially, are crucial for Swarkland HQ. This is because the people Chlöe is trying to target (renters and apartment dwellers in Central) aren't able to be door-knocked. Hundreds of postcards are made at HQ, with each volunteer bringing their own flair to the memo. All forms of cursie, block, and printed handwriting put forward their arguments as to why Chlöe is the perfect fit for MP (again). They're also her most frequently attended campaign events.

It’s here we’re introduced to a few of the comrades of change in the Swarkland cast. 

Meet Jeremy Buck. He’s a tall scarecrow of a man, with feathered stubble shadow and raven hair, who is watching our talk on a couch a small distance away. All his fingers are firmly laced around a mug of tea as he watches us. They’re the hands of a builder, which is how he got his start in the Green Party. In 2020, he helped construct hoardings for the Swarbrick campaign around the city. Chlöe cites him as an example of somebody who “turned up and fell in love with the community.” This love translated to being a lead campaign organizer who reappeared in her team for the 2023 election in a paid role - thanks to very generous donors.

Meet AJ. She is one of Chlöe’s youngest dedicated volunteers at only nineteen, with gorgeous mousy brown locks and 70s-inspired large-lensed glasses. She became enamored with Chlöe's passion when she saw her at a University of Auckland campus debate earlier in the year and felt compelled to join her cause for change. Soon after, she sent an e-mail to her office asking how she could aid her campaign. She started being another pair of legs at events and soon rose up the ranks to a core organizer; running the postcarding events, plotting streetcorner meetings for the public to korero with Chloe, and also liaisoning meet and greets at U.O.A. Most importantly of all, she loves the community. She also finds time to teach swimming amongst this dedicated election and uni schedule. 

Meet Grace. She is not only Chlöe’s beloved sister, but her family P.A. to make sure she doesn’t miss any whānau events or forget a happy birthday text. Chlöe’s also a happy aunt to her kids Wyatt and Mia—the latter of whom Grace was hapū with during the 2020 election.

Meet Leroy. Her longstanding and invaluable campaign manager who only got a name drop - but Crushes loves you, Leroy! 

It’s in these names where Chlöe seems the most at ease. There’s an effortless jester's smile as she indulges in these people’s contributions. Her flow is a steadfast current and she’s much less apologetic about rambling (which by this point she had done three times). 

This sense of whanaungatanga is intrinsically tied to her philosophy of change. 

Our solutions to the climate crisis are not going to be solved by Silicon Valley, she says. So what is the answer? To Chloe, it's obvious: It lies within your local community. It lies in civics education in schools. It lies in intentional and representational media. It lies within old mate Mark van Kaathoven whose climate-resilient berms along Freemans Bay helped combat the damage done by Cyclone Gabrielle. It lies in Daldy Street and OMG Symonds Street community gardens, giving fresh produce to their neighborhoods. It lies in Parliament unanimously voting to remove barriers so more disabled people can advocate for their community in-house. It requires anything and everything that makes people rub shoulders with those who aren’t like them.

For true, climate-resilient, whanaungatanga-led change, we have to see cooperation at a scale never seen before, she explains. This is only part one of the real challenge, part two is then figuring out how to scale up all those systems to a national level. 

Change is not individualized. Neoliberalism is not conducive to change. Nor does Chlöe want to be a mascot for change. Change is actually a mirror, Chlöe pitches, which is reflecting back at you. Things you admire about yourself. And that’s an invitation to participate and to live up to the hopes and aspirations that we share collectively that no one individual can change by themselves.

I can hear the stopwatch tick down in my head. Chlöe has a bunch of other media appearances for the day, so I wind down our interview so Gen can capture her shots. Chlöe and I chitchat as Gen sets up. She tells me, “I don’t know how you’re going to condense my ramblings into an article.” She then tells Gen, hopping amongst the lights, that the strangest part of the job is seeing your face splashed across every urban inch.

Whammy Bar isn’t the venue one would immediately think of when they hear ‘political candidate debate.’ But the day after sitting with Chlöe, we are now sitting in rows of folded chairs which are lined towards the platform stage, haloed by a ring of white and candlelight yellow stage light. It feels more like a standup night than anything else. The dancing monkeys known simply as ‘Auckland Central MP candidates’ start to arrive on the stage, along with the moderator Russell Brown. Chlöe is seated in the middle, right up against a beam blocking her from viewing the ‘lads’ wing of the debate (Damien from TOP, Oscar from Labour, and Felix from ACT, respectively). On her side of the beam is Chris from Aotearoa Legalise Cannabis and Ted from New Conservatives (or Independent? He gives us mixed signals).

While I tried to engage with her competitors, it was hard not to be transfixed by Chlöe’s stage presence. Her gaze mostly lingers on the ground; her head is cradled against her fist. The stage lights awash her in a watercolor glow. These altogether don’t paint a dismissive portrait, but instead, someone fully invested in dissecting and processing each of her peer’s arguments. She was a Renaissance woman, shrouded in thought while surrounded by the jesters. 

The other fellows have no such poise; they often shout over Chlöe, shout over each other, and her beamside colleagues get off their seats to arrest the crowd in what can affectionately be called some form of comedy (intentional or not). One voice from the crowd bellowed “mansplainer!” at ACT Candidate Felix Poole, before leaving the basement club. Felix was heckling Chlöe about her policies for rent control and landlord licenses. 

But, more importantly, she also points out that the average tenancy in New Zealand is 16 months. 16 months to get to know and lose touch with your neighbors. 16 months for your local cafe to know and then forget your regular coffee order. How is anyone meant to build community foundations in 16 months? How can anything change in the span of just 16 months? Auckland Central is also the electorate with the most renters in the country. 

As Felix drones on, I’m reminded of Chlöe’s final remark in our korero the day before. 

“If you’re coming at me, bro… Don’t just throw stones, get your hands dirty! Stand for something!”

There is a beat.

“Build that community garden!” I retorted.

Chlöe reacts with her signature polite giggle and a twinkle in her eye.

“Exactly.” 

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