KEY POINTS:
Candidates chasing political office expect consequences should they succeed, but does anyone think of the children? Even if they remain safely off-limits to opponents when it comes to campaign bluster, they still carry some of the burden - one they didn't seek and one that doesn't end the moment Mum or Dad's career does. Which may go some way to explaining why so few follow their parents' example and have a crack themselves.
The only local examples that come to mind are the Tizards and Kirks. There are likely more, but the point is that they're uncommon and the reason can't be as obvious as dealing with reflected fame and high expectations because we can all think of families dripping in multigenerational sporting accolades.
Perhaps political kids know the reality too well; the long absences, heavy workloads and three-yearly re-election stresses which probably left only divorce lawyers smiling. It can't be all that easy watching Mum or Dad on the television kissing other people's babies and gladhanding all in sundry when you haven't seen them in days, even if it's all you've known.
This may explain why they are reluctant to talk publicly about their experience, a reluctance that increases in direct proportion to the relative fame - or infamy - of the parent. But when they do, they offer words like heartbreak, pride and gratitude.
They also know that no matter how popular or enduring a politician is, there will always be those who see them as the devil incarnate, and aren't afraid to say so. But as Philip Kirk, the son of Norman Kirk, explains, the opposite extreme can be even more awkward - trying to hold a sensible conversation with someone who insists on elevating his father to sainthood can be difficult. It seems no one likes to have real life intrude on their myths.
Philip Kirk
It took the whole family to get Norman Kirk to the top, only to then be torn apart. "In the space of 21 months," says son Philip, "we went from a close-knit family living in Christchurch to one where Father was dead, Mother was living in Rotorua and I was in Hamilton with no family around me at all.
All of that was gone ... he died in August and I hadn't seen him since the previous April. I was working at the Waikato Times and out on the road when I found out. We had stopped in Tokoroa at a petrol station - it was the middle of the night - and the boy behind the counter was totally distraught, and well ... in my case, it left a huge sense of emptiness."
It took Kirk 10 years to come to terms with the loss of his father. "I knew he only wanted five years in the job, so I thought I'd finish my apprenticeship, go back to Christchurch and life would resume. Father's death changed everything ...
Then the funeral process itself, that was extraordinary; massive. But it felt like a dream and I was walking through it, like there was nothing directly personal in it for you. The whole grieving process didn't start till after ..." The pain of Kirk's loss is still tangible, given the reverence many continue to hold for the larger-than-life Labour Party Prime Minister who sent frigates to Mururoa, took France to the World Court over their nuclear tests and cancelled the 1973 Springbok tour as a protest against apartheid.
It's a subject that is broached by strangers time and time again. Perhaps this is why, apart from eldest son John's brief, ill-fated spell in Parliament and Bob's current stint as an Environment Canterbury councillor, the family maintains a low profile. It may also be why, when Big Norm suggested he would suit journalism or law, Philip Kirk got into publishing instead. He even moved to Hamilton rather than Wellington after the 1972 election win to avoid being treated as the Prime Minister's son: "That scared the life out of me.
Growing up, it wasn't so much that people gave you a kicking because they supported the opposite party, it was mostly the old Kiwi [tall] poppy thing. I can't think of any occasion of someone having a go because they disagreed with Father's politics, it was just because we stuck out from the herd, and as a young man I was painfully shy so I found the whole thing quite painful.
"But in hindsight it was a good thing, because I learnt a lot about human nature. I'd have people giving me a hard time, then I'd see them at a public event and see them all over my father like a rash. Now, and I wonder if others have the same experience, one of the most difficult things is when someone gushes all over you. They've formed a view of Father which you actually don't think is right and it can be difficult not to offend them."
Which isn't to suggest, he thinks badly of his father; he remains hugely proud. "It's just that most people only remember the popularity of those last 21 months, I remember him fighting his way up. For anyone getting into politics, they need to think about what they value in family and personal life and stick very close to it because if it disappears into the vortex of Wellington they'll never get it back."
Politics dominated Philip's childhood, with mum, dad, and five kids squeezed into a three-bedroom house that doubled as the electorate office. Even when his father was away they had a steady stream of constituents seeking advice and help from his mother Ruth Kirk - Philip calls her an "unsung hero" - who served as unpaid electorate and social worker.
As for the kids, they were called upon to deliver pamphlets to every letterbox and hang up the banners publicising Kirk's corner meetings: "My whole life was measured in three-yearly breaks and I probably saw every street of the Lyttelton and Sydenham electorates from my bike. But as a kid I enjoyed it, especially the hecklers. People would come along and try to trip father up; it was a bit of a sport to try and score one off the local politician.
"Father also encouraged us to question and debate things with him. We didn't win a lot, but he made us realise that if you're going to hold forth, don't engage in prejudice, just make sure you know what you're talking about." After losing the 1966 and 1969 general elections, along came 1972. Labour got into power with a 23-seat majority and the family found itself suddenly scattered around the country.
Up to then Philip had never really considered leaving Christchurch: "My life changed completely. Then I found myself in a strange city and on my own. It made me very aware of what Dad used to say: 'If you see any trouble anywhere, don't be in it or you'll be on the front page.' So I had to be very careful and make sure I was seen to behave myself." Kirk is proud of his father's legacy, saying "my father basically found the country asleep and woke it up."
"That's a very long time ago now, I know, but it seems that right across the political spectrum there's still a lot of affection for my father and people still have great respect for him. That's a great thing to have walking alongside you. But while I'm grateful for the legacy he's left I don't want to go through those times myself. Politics is a rough business and I've got no stomach at all for getting hurt or hurting other people. Whenever I'm asked, I've got a quick and simple answer ready: No, not interested, thanks."
Gavin Muldoon
Gavin Muldoon turned 4 in 1960, the year Sir Robert first won the Auckland seat of Tamaki for the National Party, a seat he then held for another 31 years. But it wasn't until his father, as Minister of Finance, became responsible for introducing decimal currency in July 1967 that he realised his dad was someone rather important - he even got to take a few examples of the new money to school to impress his friends.
Later on, his dad managed to sneak him and his two sisters into the background as he was being interviewed so they could see themselves on television. Both events seemed pretty cool at the time, even if, as he says, his friends didn't really pay much attention to his family name.
"Kids are just kids at that age, so I don't recall there being a great deal of attention. There were a few jokes about 'piggy' banks, but I think the 60s were a relatively nice time. Really it's hard to say, maybe it was different for me because everything gradually built up as I was growing up. I didn't know anything different, Dad was just Dad, he would come along and watch me play rugby or cricket whenever he could." Sir Robert wasn't a sideline screamer.
"Not at all. In public life, he was relatively boisterous, but in private he was relatively quiet." During those early years politics took Sir Robert from their Kohimarama home for the three or four days a week when Parliament was sitting and holidays were spent up at the bach in Hatfields Beach, a spot where they could escape attention - until they had a phone installed.
Life began changing rapidly when his father was elevated in Holyoake's Cabinet and the family moved to Wellington, even if they did try to keep life as normal as possible. "We were living in Karori, but most nights he'd drive home for dinner, stay for about two hours, and then go back to Parliament. He was a minister so he spent most of the time going through his Cabinet papers, but we knew that was what you had to do [in that job].
If a politician is there when their family needs them, then they will accept the times when they can't be there, as long as they are doing their best for the country and all New Zealanders." As for growing up in a household dominated by a man whose name can still fracture a room: "I wasn't lucky, proud or wishing he did something else.
It was the way it was ... he was my dad who I respected and believed did a good job." The family sometimes discussed politics, but Gavin says there weren't in-depth discussions unless they had visitors. "We'd talk about various issues of the day, whether they involved [Jack] Marshall, [David] Lange, or [Norman] Kirk, those sorts of people, but for the most part it wasn't greatly political."
Then came Norman Kirk's death, the 1975 election and the rise of Rob's Mob. Gavin's strongest memory is of watching his father command a 6500-strong audience, packed inside the Wiri Wool Store. "I was searched going in, it was the biggest indoor political meeting ever. That was something special ... thousands of people between me and on the wool bales.
Only the people I was with knew who I was ... I was proud of my father." By then, Gavin was a member of the Young Nats and a familiar face at the National Party headquarters on Tamaki Drive.
"We enjoyed some good nights there, absolutely." But his father's rise had it's inevitable slide. "Nothing is ever permanent in politics and we knew that. It was sad when he finally lost [in 1984], but he had his time. He stood for what he believed was right, made the call and lost. It was sad, disappointing, we were too close to it to see it coming, although we did believe it was going to be close." Gavin says it was in the 70s when his father's infamy started affecting the family.
"We started to get abusive phone calls. We had our phone number delisted, my mother's number is still delisted. "Our name opens some doors and closes others because of the sort of feelings people had towards my father. I still get some reaction to the name.
Most young people wouldn't have a clue, but the older ones ask whether he was my father - there's not many of us [Muldoons] around - but I don't worry about it. It's been happening for nearly 30 to 40 years, so I got over it a long time ago. "You get the extremes, positive and negative, and I came across the social climbers and political climbers, but some of my best friends were Labour Party members during their university days."
Now back in Orakei where he has a small accountancy business and co-owns a childcare centre, Muldoon shares the seemingly standard aversion to direct political involvement among politicians' children. His attitude isn't due to disillusionment. "No, it's not so much that, it's more the comparisons that would be made. If I became involved I'd always be compared to my father or some people would be against me simply because of what my father did. That sounds like more trouble than it's worth, and anyway, the money's not that good."
Kyle Beetham
"To be honest, the first time I ever voted was the last election ... and I'm nearly 37. That might surprise you." At first, yes, but the more Kyle Beetham speaks, the less surprising it becomes. He is his father's son after all, and while Bruce Beetham was an intensely political creature, he didn't become our first recognisable face of third-party politics for nothing.
"I guess my attitude is partly because I grew up with politics all around me," says Kyle, now a Hamilton-based ACC customer support services manager, "and partly, I guess, because my father imparted in me a strong need to believe in something deeply before I support it.
Some may argue that's apathetic, but I say I need a very good reason to vote for something, and at the last election I finally felt compelled strongly enough to do so. "The only sadness about that is that I'm now getting interested in politics and I wish my father was alive so I could discuss it with him. He and I probably wouldn't see eye-to-eye politically now and he'd probably turn in his grave if he knew how I was going to vote, but one of biggest regrets is that I can't [talk to him].
I may have wasted some very valuable time in my life." In case you weren't there, or weren't paying attention at the time, Bruce Beetham was the beaming face of Social Credit, aka the "Funny Money" party, for 14 years from 1972.
He was charismatic, he was different, he was even courted by the big parties, and when his stocks began to fall he was shafted, via a gerrymander. Until then, and despite being a third-party politician well before they became standard parliamentary fixtures, he was enough of a household name from the mid-70s to early-80s to make life slightly awkward for his children, especially after his first marriage fell to the demands of politics and he headed south from his old mayoral fiefdom in Hamilton to run for parliament in Rangitikei.
"I don't recall consciously thinking about it at the time, but I would say some people thought of us as kind of elite, that we had special privileges or had silver spoons, which was so far from being the case", says Kyle. My father wasn't particularly wealthy and came from humble beginnings - his father was a World War I veteran, and he struggled to make ends meet - but that's how we were viewed anyway.
"I guess it was because he was on the television, he was a political leader and he'd been mayor - to other people that meant he must be a little bit special. By then he was somewhere else with a new wife and we were four kids with a solo mum. [Mum] never saw herself as a political mum and that may have played a part in ending their relationship. But that's how we grew up.
It wasn't the perfect upbringing but life was fairly normal, considering." Kyle says he knew that his dad "had a special job" and "we felt very good about that. I know some people saw him as a crank, but I was immensely proud of him, right up till he died [in 1997], especially given the path he took. It wasn't easy, but he was staunch in his view of being very principled." But if he was proud, the personal impact of his father's success and eventual failure made politics deeply unattractive.
"I was approached to see if I was interested in getting into politics, but I stayed away. I wasn't interested in getting into it in any kind of detail. In my 20s, I was very Peter Pan, I wanted to keep my life young ... and I remember the night he lost in 1984.
Never for a second did I think he would lose. He'd had a heart attack the year before and we were always worried about him getting overly stressed, but for my whole life he had been an MP or the Mayor of Hamilton. I was talking to him on the phone as the night went on and I was full of confidence. We were watching on the television, it was first he's in the lead, then he's behind.
So the result was very emotional, actually it was heartbreaking, gutwrenching. I was only 13, I didn't know what it meant. He was relatively upbeat but I'm sure he was devastated. That period changed how I view politics."
The younger Beetham's view may have been changed, but his father's political eccentricity still runs deep: "I don't mean to demean what my father achieved, because he achieved a lot considering the barriers he faced, but if I entered politics I'd go for a mainstream party. The only problem is that I couldn't really align with any of them."
