*Louise Hutt is a Hamilton City Councillor who was elected in October 2022‍

Walking into the Hamilton City Council Chambers, you’re surrounded by photographs of previously elected members. In my first couple of weeks as a new councillor, I was looking at my predecessors when the person beside me mentioned, “there’s something very similar about all these…”

“Yes,” I replied, pausing for humorous effect. “It’s the patriarchy.”

In some previous councils, the only minority present is “men without moustaches”. While moustaches on our current council are in the minority, the patriarchy still perseveres and so does the image of who is an elected representative. 

People often ask what department of council I work in, no matter how well I enunciate my job title. I don’t often assume malice but there are more pointed comments that reinforce the idea that this isn’t where a young, queer, disabled person should be – I’ve observed similar comments from the public towards my colleagues from our new Māori ward as well.

It’s tiring to justify your professional existence, and these conversations point towards a deeper societal challenge of how power has been held by a small part of society – leading to general disenfranchisement with local government, and a broader perception of what authority and leadership does or doesn’t look like. 

Besides politely enduring these comments for the next three years, I’ve been considering what shortcuts exist to realign these assumptions. Avery Trufelman, in her podcast Articles of Interest, talks about fashion as a social language – a language that I’ve been considering how to use to my advantage. What does dressing like a city councillor who has my lived experience and represents the communities I come from look like? 

I’ve sometimes joked my personal style is “Pokemon Gym Leader”, or has its own sense of humour. I buy things because they make me feel like a big egg yolk, the sky at night, like a garden of wildflowers. I often joked during campaign events that I love greenspaces so much I dressed like one.

I’m a big fan of Reilly Hodson’s Substack newsletter Clipboard, and he sums up my predicament well:

“The ability to wear whatever you want all the time is a luxury afforded to precious few. For the rest of us, how we dress is dictated by our means and the contexts we find ourselves in [...] Through all of those contexts, though, I’m the same person.

"My interests are the same, and I continue to derive my confidence and a sense of self from the way I present to the world through outfits. So essentially, I’m on a constant search for a way to present consistently in different contexts, more so than for the perfect black pants, or whatever.”

He goes on to talk about the framework of his personal style, things like always making an effort, leaning towards classic styles, and the colour palette he chooses. For me, my style rules are shaped by my identity and lifestyle as much as they are by aesthetics.

I campaigned as a member of the disabled community, and sartorial choices enable me to better participate in our world. Sneakers might be cool and fun, but as someone with a limited capacity for walking or standing, they buy me extra time without pain in my day. The same with my choice of tops and bras – I value wearing things that don’t restrict or put pressure on my shoulders or chest. Both of these choices are accommodations for my scoliosis. 

I’m a cyclist and public transport user (I don’t own a car) and I take a lot of inspiration from the practicality of Dutch and Scandinavian style. A raincoat is an integral part of my wardrobe, so are trousers, a backpack (which I wear like a nerd who has back pain), and things that will be forgiving if they get a bit damp, crumpled, or sweaty. This is compounded by the fact Hamilton is tragically muggy 90% of the year. Cotton and linen are a matter of survival. 

Another constraint on my style is simply what brands cater to my size. I routinely butt up against the hard end of the sizing chart, sometimes just sneaking in or being sized out altogether. Getting yet another Instagram ad from Karen Walker, Kate Sylvester, Penny Sage, Hej Hej, Mina or Juliette Hogan when I simply do not exist in their sizing chart or the sizes they regularly stock is demoralising. 

When I find a brand that does actually allow for waists bigger than 90cm or busts more than 110cm, I’m a reliable, loyal, long-term customer. Fatphobia is yet another limitation to what my wardrobe can look like, and it’s even more challenging for the many people bigger than I am. 

My debut as a politician has coincided with turning the corner into my 30s – so it seemed a natural fit to consider what I’ll be living in and how I’ll be representing myself in this new chapter of my life. I don’t want to betray that I come from community organising and advocacy or that I know what it’s like to need a food parcel or be in line at WINZ. 

For some of the people who voted for me, they did so because they wanted someone who didn’t represent the status quo of local body politics but instead represented them. It’s walking that line between different contexts and environments – wearing something that makes it believable when I say I’m a city councillor, but also speaks to who I am and what informs my politics.  

I am grateful to have Green Party colleagues like the incredibly cool Tam Paul and Yadana Saw in local government and the undeniable trendsetter Chlöe Swarbrick in central government to navigate this space in parallel. I know Ricardo Menéndez March and Rawiri Waititi have challenged the dress codes of parliament – once again, shifting the narrative of what power looks like. Power can look like a bolo tie or a taonga, it can look like no tie, it can be a blazer over a T-shirt, it can be sneakers. 

While the simplest solution might be my councillor name tag, maybe not fitting in is a good thing – maybe I should relish in realigning someone’s expectation of what a politician looks like, even if I do have to polish my sneakers and use my ironing board more than I used to. Maybe that’s part of the work too.