Kate Camp, a Wellingtonian poet and communications professional, has recently unveiled her memoir, “You Probably Think This Song Is About You,” published by Te Herenga Waka University Press. This compelling narrative, which I devoured in a single sitting, offers a profound exploration of a life lived with unflinching honesty. Camp’s work, as discussed in her recent interview with Kim Hill, delves into the very essence of memoir writing – the meticulous process of uncovering a core truth and then retracing the steps that led to it.
This memoir can be broadly categorized as a coming-of-age story, tracing the experiences of a woman from 1972 to the present day. It seamlessly blends personal nostalgia—vividly depicting the sights, sounds, and smells of her grandparents’ home in Hastings and recalling school assembly hymns—with the quintessential dramas of adolescence, including experimentation with alcohol, cigarettes, and sex. Furthermore, Camp bravely navigates terrains often explored in women’s literature, such as the emotional complexities of fertility struggles and the subtle yet stinging wounds of childlessness. However, what truly sets “You probably think this song is about you” apart is its fearless plunge into territories rarely articulated with such candor, exemplified by a chapter dedicated to the often-taboo subject of bedwetting, both in childhood and adulthood.
Interwoven through these personal reflections are enduring narratives that shape Camp’s life: a tumultuous long-term relationship marred by addiction and abuse, the devastating impact of a close friend’s suicide, the unwavering support of a loving family, and a series of near misses and second chances that underscore life’s precarious nature.
Working alongside Kate at Te Papa, where she serves as Head of Marketing and Communications, has provided me with a professional perspective, yet the intimate history revealed in her memoir was largely unknown to me. “You probably think this song is about you” predominantly recounts events preceding my acquaintance with her. The “smoke-soaked Kate” depicted in the book, while understandable within the context of her narrative, is not the Kate I know. Interestingly, the memoir’s portrayal evokes memories of my older cousin Kim, who, a few years Kate’s senior, shared a similar trajectory: a brilliant university dropout, a passionate Greenpeace activist, a former head girl who embraced a rebellious streak, a cannabis smoker whose laughter carried a distinctive, lung-affected rasp, and a person who offered wry acceptance of human imperfections.
Certain aspects of “You probably think this song is about you” evoke a sense of horror, akin to watching a suspenseful film where you anticipate the unfolding of unfortunate events. The portrait of a young teenager who uses her mother’s clothing to gain entry into Courtenay Place pubs, who spends time at a 41-year-old drug dealer’s residence, and who seems to undervalue her own worth, exchanging intimacy for fleeting desires, is deeply unsettling. This is a young woman who enters an abusive relationship and remains trapped, a young person to whom terrible things happen, and who, in turn, embodies a “baddest version of herself.” Yet, even in these darker episodes, one can discern the seeds of the Kate Camp I recognize today – the relentless logic in risk assessment, the almost superhuman capacity to navigate challenging situations to a manageable resolution. As she recounts:
I spent ten years of my teens and twenties with an one-again-off-again boyfriend, and we used to fight like that all the time. I remember our downstairs neighbour saying to me one time, When I hear you guys fight, and I can hear things smashing and breaking, and I hear you screaming, when should I call the police? And I didn’t skip a beat, didn’t think, I wonder if that’s a rhetorical question. I just said, I’ll call out to you. If I ever call your name, go straight next door and call the cops. He didn’t have a phone.
What I find particularly striking about “You probably think this song is about you,” especially given my professional but not deeply personal relationship with Kate, is her refusal to excuse herself, even as she embraces self-compassion. The honesty within these pages is not performative, not seeking validation or sensationalism; it feels unearthed, meticulously examined, and articulated with an almost inevitable force.
Even though it’s the truth, it feels unfair and somehow cheap for me to write about Jimi’s anger, his violence. It’s like playing a card that changes the meaning of everything, makes it black-and-white. And it wasn’t like that. I did so many things in that relationship that I’m ashamed of. I lied and stole and cheated, and I was cruel, and most of all I’m ashamed of how I used him, of how, over those ten years, I went back time and time again, always for the same reason. He said to me once I don’t think you really want to have sex with me, you’re just trading sex for intimacy. And I thought No, I’m trading sex for drugs and intimacy.
I recognize this “card” she speaks of. For me, it is widowhood, now a decade in my past. “My first husband died. He killed himself.” This statement acts as an absolution, freeing me from responsibility. I am not at fault. Yet, of course, at some level, I am.
Another shared trait with Kate, as revealed in “You probably think this song is about you,” is a tendency to under-react:
The fertility doctor had been asking me if I’d been feeling any side-effects from the hormones, any breast tenderness, night sweats, strange emotions, and I’d been happy to report I hadn’t felt a thing. Now I was coming to realise that was a bad thing, my body’s stoic insensibility. I was under-reacting, just like I always did.
This under-reaction is partly attributed to a natural resilience, an ability to remain composed amidst chaos. For myself, I also attribute it to what I describe as “burnt-off emotional nerve-endings,” leading me to observe my emotions rather than fully experience them. There’s a touch of Scottish stoicism, a sense that emotional displays are not worth the effort, and a distaste for creating a scene or appearing vulnerable. I recall, as a young teenager of 12 or 14, attempting to conjure tears over some adolescent injustice, practicing sobbing in front of a mirror, only to abandon the effort due to a lack of genuine emotional investment. Twice, men have left me – one through suicide, the other for another woman – both articulating, in their own ways, “I know you’ll cope.” This, perhaps, is another way of saying, “I know you won’t make this difficult for me.”
In “You probably think this song is about you,” Camp recounts seeking medical attention for abdominal pain and facing the possibility of ovarian cancer:
At some point he said that I was very calm, and I remember thinking, I don’t really see what the alternative is, were there patients who would burst into tears or shriek No no no or say well that’s just fucking brilliant isn’t it. I said something like Well there’s not much point getting upset at this stage. I had a therapist at this time – she was a Scandinavian of some kind – and I remember her saying to me once, in her northern European accent, I find it interesting that you say there is ‘no point’ in feeling a certain way. Do you believe that emotions should serve a utilitarian purpose? It was the kind of annoying question you pay good money for.
Years ago, I watched a television series, possibly titled “Child of Our Times,” a turn-of-the-millennium program following a group of children born around the same period. One episode, exploring children’s emotional recognition, remains vivid in my memory. Four-year-olds were tested on their ability to identify and describe emotions. They listened to recordings of a voice actor reading recipes in Italian, imbued with exaggerated emotions: profound sadness, elation, fear. Children were given cartoon faces to match to the emotions conveyed in the voice recordings.
Most children performed well, but one little blonde girl consistently failed, holding up a smiley face even when the voice conveyed deep sorrow. Remarkably, this child was exceptionally perceptive, an “old soul.” Her family was experiencing stress, possibly parental discord, and she seemed to navigate and mediate family tensions. The child development expert probed further, questioning her about the mismatch between face and voice. She responded, “It’s important people think you’re happy, even when you’re sad.” The poignant tenderness, sadness, and self-awareness in that moment continue to resonate deeply.
Kate Camp echoes this sentiment in “You probably think this song is about you”:
I have always observed but am still surprised by the fact that, when you pretend to be OK, most people think you are. You’re expecting at least some of them to see through you, but they almost never do.I have a recurring dream that I am being held hostage, or in some dangerous situation, some threatening men are there who I know mean me harm, Whatever the situation, I know instinctively that the only way to survive is to pretend I don’t know they are a threat. I need to behave as if everything is fine, while calculating my escape. In one version of the dream, I am lying in bed with an intruder next to me, crouched by my face; I pretend I think he’s a family member and tell him, groggily, that I’m asleep. In another I’m being held in a compound, but I walk around with my captors, politely commenting on the landscaping, while secretly looking for a way out. The dreams never resolve one way or another, but the sense on waking is of the enormous pressure of knowing your safety depends on cheerfulness, on your ability to convince others that you are blithely unaware of danger. I know my sister has the same dream sometimes.
In her acknowledgements, Camp shares her father’s reaction to “You probably think this song is about you.” Her parents’ love is a consistent and positive force in her life, a balance against the darker episodes recounted in the memoir. However, her father is troubled by the book’s focus on the “bruises on the apple” of Kate’s life, lamenting the absence of her successes: her fulfilling marriage, accomplished career, literary achievements, and established presence in the world. Why, he wonders, does she portray herself so unflatteringly?
For me, a passage in “You probably think this song is about you” encapsulates the wisdom of Kate Camp. In her interview with Kim Hill, Camp mentions a “not very startling self-realisation of the Covid era,” and this passage seems to be one of those insights. It is not necessarily groundbreaking, but it is born from lived experience, from countless ordinary moments, perhaps even moments she might cringe to recall, yet moments rendered compelling through her writing:
When you think about rock bottom, it sounds like a one-time thing, but in my experience it’s a place you end up going to over and over. If you’re lucky, you learn something each time you visit.
“You probably think this song is about you” is a testament to the power of unflinching honesty and the cyclical nature of personal growth. It is a memoir that invites readers to confront uncomfortable truths and find resonance in the shared human experience of navigating life’s complexities.
