A Different Kind of Power: A Memoir

by Jacinda Ardern

“Not until you learn how to use a gun carefully and properly,” Dad said, heading out into the night. Soon after that he taught me to use the rifle. He set up a target, showing me how to hold the gun against my shoulder and steady myself when it threw me back. No matter how many times I fired, each time it gave me a fright. But I kept at it, determined to learn. I did a lot of things in those days that I suppose would have made me a “tomboy.” I whizzed round the orchard on Dad’s old Honda motorbike, my mum shaking her head at my speed and warning my dad, “She’s not taking that out on the road, Ross.” One afternoon, I watched as Dad peered at the undercarriage of our large, secondhand riding lawn mower, which had broken down for the third time that year. I stood on the loose gravel at the edge of the big, corrugated-iron shed, certain Dad could fix it. He lay against the hot concrete floor of the shed, shifting uncomfortably, a look of consternation on his face. Dad extended one arm and asked me to pass him a wrench. I rushed over to the rusty toolbox as if I were on a timer. “Thanks,” he said. He kept his eyes on the bottom of the mower as he added, “You’re the closest thing I have to a son.”