Autumn House Press is pleased to announce the upcoming release of Beth Alvarado’s essay collection, Anxious Attachments. Alvarado’s essays explore the writer’s personal struggles—from quitting heroin to caring for premature infants to tending to the dying—and become a lens through which she allows readers to see our shared social and political lives. As a larger narrative, the book is about the power of compassion and our ability to revise who we are, what we believe, and what our story is.
Of the collection writer Aisha Sabatini Sloan says, “Alvarado’s gorgeous essays evoke the fluidity and awe of an underwater journey. She offers us a tour of grief—its causes, its cultural conditions, its grasp. In delineating, with devotion, with humor, losses that are at once ordinary and extraordinary, material and supernatural, she offers the reader a chance to better see what’s right in front of them.”
About the Author: Beth Alvarado is the author of three books: Anxious Attachments, Anthropologies: A Family Memoir, and Not a Matter of Love and other stories. Beth lived in the Sonoran Borderlands for much of her life and now resides in Oregon. Her essays and stories have been published in many fine journals including Guernica, The Sun, River Teeth, Cimarron Review, Third Coast, The Southern Review, Sonora Review, and Ploughshares. Her essays have twice been chosen as Notable by Best American Essay.
Please look for Anxious Attachments at your local bookstore, on Autumn House’s website, autumnhouse.org, or through our distributor The University of Chicago Press.
Review of Anxious Attachments:
From New York Journal of Books, March 15, 2019, by Melanie Bishop
“Imagine turning your head and holding your arm out, as if for a blood test. You feel a slight prick, you loosen the tie, and then suddenly, this warmth floods up; you feel a rush that begins at the base of your spine and surges up until it explodes in your head, like light. Then, for hours, you float in a bubble of warmth and well-being, dreams as vivid as movies drift before your eyes. This is why people like heroin.
“Imagine you no longer feel like an ordinary girl, bland and vulnerable, but like a girl who is daring, an outsider, one of the guys. This is why I tried it in the first place.
“But why is a question that heroin addicts never ask. We know why. The question for the addict is why not?”
These are the opening paragraphs of Alvarado’s book. At 16, with her boyfriend Fernando, the author began using heroin; at 19, she married Fernando; and by 20, she was pregnant. That pregnancy became her why not, her reason to get clean. They had a son, Michael. They would stay clean, and a few years later, have a daughter, Kathryn. Just as pregnancy saved Alvarado from addiction, familial connection, expressed throughout these essays, keeps her both honest and sane. There’s nothing Alvarado isn’t willing to talk about, examine, admit, confess.
But these essays are about way more than the addiction with which they open. Water contamination, poverty, civil rights, gun violence, mental illness, Trump, the 2017 wildfire season, the 2017 total solar eclipse, the difference between a baby’s REM sleep and an adult’s—all this gets woven in with the personal.
In “Clarity,” the author struggles while caring for her dying mother, but when Alvarado’s adult daughter, Kathryn, comes to help care for her grandmother, the right words come to her easily, and she’s able to do the things her mother can’t.
“Kathryn sits at my mother’s feet and holds her hand. She helps her walk from room to room. She gives her little neck rubs, brings her chocolate chip cookies from the mall. She says the words my mother needs to hear: ‘I cherish you and I know you cherish me.’
“I cannot say these things. I cannot tell my mother how much I love her. Instead, I am cheerful. Because my mother does not want me to see her naked, I tell her I will wear dark glasses when I bathe her. ‘I’ll wear dark glasses and shake my head like Stevie Wonder,’ I tell her, ‘then you can pretend I’m blind.’
“As I stand behind her in the shower, she huddles on the small plastic seat. I am afraid she is cold. ‘Are you cold?’ I ask her. But it is summer. I am dressed in my underwear and bra and my dark glasses and I bathe her. Still she curves her arms, cradling her breasts. She does not want me to see my future. She is so small that my hand, outstretched as if to cover an octave on the piano, nearly spans her back, her skin as thin and translucent as the water sliding over it. I can see her blue veins. Sometimes when I sit next to her on the bed and rub her back, she touches my other hand. She asks me, ‘Is this my hand or yours?’”
Such scenes are abundant in this book, filled with beautiful human attempts to connect, to protect, to do right by our loved ones. In showing what the daughter is able to do for her grandmother, that the author cannot do, Alvarado pinpoints the grace, the benevolence afforded by that space, that skipped generation. For Kathryn, it’s easy to say, “I cherish you.” But because Kathryn is of Beth, and Beth is of her mother, they’re inextricably linked, and what Kathryn is able to say may as well be the words of her mother, because in the end, whose hand is this anyway?
Alvarado includes the references to current events, politics, social issues, and science, not because she’s trying to make these personal essays about more than herself, but because they are about more than herself. Going from the intensely personal to the political, the social, the scientific, is what makes these essays universal.
About her brother-in-law Marty: “He hears voices. He rarely leaves his small studio apartment. It took years for him to qualify for disability. Before that, he was homeless, or we paid his rent. He’s the big disheveled guy at the grocery store—you’ve seen him, you know him: the one you don’t want to call brother.”
Alvarado suggests here that the mentally ill person in our midst, in our own grocery store or community, doesn’t have to be an actual relative for us to realize he too belongs to us, that we’re all connected, that everyone is someone’s brother, sister, loved one. And mental illness is an issue belonging to us all.
Readers come away from these essays more educated, informed, and justifiably outraged that drinking water in Tucson was poisoned by trichloroethylene (TCE). But they also come away having fallen in love with Fernando, who died six years ago, and to whom the book is dedicated. And having fallen in love with Alvarado, too, and with their solid but unlikely union of 40 years that sounds about as glorious and real as love gets.
“After a day of taking care of my mother, I would lie awake at night and worry aloud that I was a bad daughter because I didn’t want to take care of her. But neither did I want her to die. ‘Shhh,’ Fernando would tell me, even though he knew I hated to be shushed. ‘She knows you love her.’ His hand on my back lets me fall asleep. This is one reason to get married: to have someone who can help us bear what we think we cannot.”
“I remember whenever Kathryn complained of a cold and didn’t want to go to school, Fernando would take her to the convenience store and buy her little packages of Kleenex and cough drops, and then she would go.”
These tender portraits of Fernando as both a husband and a father endear him to the reader. Alvarado bemoans in the book that she doesn’t remember enough about him, fears that in avoiding the excruciating pain of grief, she will “erase him,” but instead, with every picture she paints, she immortalizes him. This whole book is a love song to Fernando.
Reviews of Anthropologies: University of Iowa Press, 2011
From Sonora Review: The beginning of Anthropologies feels like something you’ve remembered before—a frail mother recounts stories for a middle-aged daughter. But then, the daughter is 18, and she wears bell bottoms and a black tee shirt and argues with the mother about a boyfriend. The argument ends and it is Colorado in 1968, and the windows fog as a young girl dries dishes with a young mother, and suddenly you aren’t remembering—you are living in a world so specific and complete you can’t have passed through it before.
Beth Alvarado’s Anthropologies is a pile of perfectly ordered snapshots, so quickly and quietly stacked that soon the remembering becomes a world unto itself. Alvarado is the daughter of Margaret, the niece of Dorothy, the younger sibling to a half-brother and half-sister born of a father who died in Saipan and a mother too early a widow. Margaret meets her second husband en route to a bridge game in Puget Sound, and Alvarado’s childhood ends when the family moves from Grand Junction to Tucson. “My father was a solitary man,” Alvarado says of her father.“How I hated him,” Aunt Dorothy says of her father, Alvarado’s grandfather.
So is the fabric of a family created, through memories stacked one on top of each other. Through the first section of Anthropologies, Notes on Silence, Alvarado remembers what she learned of her family as a child—the origins of the couple that would become her grandparents, become her parents, and the memories are associative, leaping from quiet deathbed memories to the bubbled promised of courtship.
While vivid, the moments in Notes on Silence, aptly titled, are quiet and dependant on Alvarado’s telling of them. It isn’t until the second section, Notes on Travel, that these moments begin to exist of their own agency—as experiences we inhabit ourselves rather than memories possessed by a narrator. Notes on Travel begins as Alvarado meets Fernando, the man who will become her husband, but for now he’s just the waiter at an awkward formal dinner when she’s an awkward teenager. She’s 18, then, and travels to west Tucson, Hispanic Tucson, to live with Fernando and his family, and she could well have traveled to a different country.
She watches her mother-in-law pat tortillas on a stove. She takes an “old round green bus down South Sixth Avenue,” passing “the carniceria and the tortilleria and the storefronts painted bright yellow or orange or pink with blue letters and black wrought-iron bars over the windows, and the music of Spanish… all around.” She absorbs the stories of this new landscape, with its thick layers of memory and history, and these stories alter her, change her own memories and her relationship to her own history. “I wanted to escape my parents’ life, to enter another country, but I hadn’t expected to find there barefoot children hopping from spot of shade to spot of shade as they followed their mother to the grocery,” she writes.
This world, the world between cultures, is the most firmly rooted in place—Tucson, in the 1970s and today—and it becomes, for me, the most vivid. Alvarado explores the intersection of Anglo and Hispanic cultures within this grounding, in relationships with new relatives, or thirty years into a marriage with Fernando, or quick experiences of a mixed-race son and daughter.
Anthropologies is sparse yet complete, a narrative forged out of fragments. The book explores memory and race and relationships, but after awhile, anthropologies is not just about this exploration—it is a memoir, after all, a story of a life, and Alvarado has funny friends and endearing moments. (“The fall picnic. We are standing in front of the salads. Cre-a-tive Wri-ting? the Japanese doctoral student in engineering asks me, spooning rice onto his paper plate, what is this? Cre-a-tive Wri-ting?”)
“Maybe my grandmother simply entered a room in another woman’s past and it felt like home,” writes Alvarado—and maybe that’s what she’s doing here, building rooms, and they start to feel like home. ~Review by Megan Kimble in Sonora Review, September 23, 2011
From Publishers Weekly: Sparked by her mother’s deterioration into old age, Alvarado (Not a Matter of Love) has written a three-part memoir about her family life that approaches prose poetry. It is searing at moments, especially when she discusses her life as a junkie, but the narrative then becomes dreamy, even vague. Despite the loose structure—not even chronological order is respected—vivid portraits of her parents, children, in-laws, and especially, her husband ring true and sharp. A section focusing on her leaving her white, suburban upbringing to marry her Mexican husband and move into the home of his immigrant parents is particularly striking. Coming from a university press, this book risks being overlooked. However, readers should seek it out for Alvarado’s distinctive and compelling writing. (Sept.)
From Kirkus Reviews: Alvarado (Not a Matter of Love, 2006) follows her debut short-story collection with a memoir that also explores the intersection of Hispanic and Anglo cultures in the western United States. This highly personal work weaves together stories of her parents’ lives as well as her own experiences with love, familial attachment, heroin addiction, motherhood, travel and her writing. “I have autobiography anxiety,” she writes, explaining that she felt “no tenderness” for the self recorded in her adolescent journal. This may explain, to some degree, the wild deviation Alvarado takes from typical autobiographies. With no quotation marks and chapters averaging one page, she writes only in the present tense, from her perspective as a girl up to now, in her mid-50s. This somewhat jarring structure imbues the book with a strong, immediate voice, and it’s easy to imagine it read aloud as something akin to spoken-word poetry. Her overlapping of the past and present illuminates her legacy and the connections between herself and, respectively, her mother and daughter. In examining her own secrets, she recognizes that, even if she doesn’t know what they are, her children also have secrets. She wonders if they tried to confide in her and she failed. “Maybe,” she writes, “like my mother, I shut my eyes, my ears, my heart.” But her memoir stands as a striking rebuttal to that fear. She lays bare in these pages the many stories and details of her life and identity. Devoid of self-pity or nostalgia, Alvarado’s voice is bell-clear.
Reviews of Not a Matter of Love New Rivers Press, Fall 2006
From Front Porch Journal 4: From a bird’s-eye-view, Alvarado’s stories are. . .montage. In ‘Phoenix,’ as in several other stories, the point of view shifts between mother and child. Perspectives mesh. The characters’ interior lives–as when Gloria and Danika drive to Phoenix, discussing and avoiding topics of sex and love–are equally weighted. Where, the reader might initially ask, is the eye, the focus, to land? But this roving point of view becomes Alvarado’s strength rather than her weakness. [Her] fluid structure successfully and unpretentiously mimics life; the result is evocative. . . .
Alvarado’s storylines are cleanly crafted and unambiguous, her details raw. In ‘Limbo,’ Alvarado tells the tale of a Hispanic mother whose only son, Rey, is killed in a shootout. In the story’s opening, an anonymous woman phones the mother, Lena, and says, ‘I have your son’s liver.’ The claim, like the circumstances of Rey’s demise, remains impossible to verify, though Alvarado reconstructs the shooting for the reader from Lena’s perspective. Alvarado writes, “Whenever Lena imagines the night of Rey’s death, she imagines it as a story. . .” Soon, Alvarado deftly places us in scene with Rey and his compatriot Eddie, sans Lena.
Finally, though Alvarado’s stories also touch on romance, her characters are rarely romantic. In “What Lydia Thinks of Roses,” we witness a day in the life of the teenaged Lydia Montoya. The characters are staunchly prosaic, as when, midway into the story, “Tiffany looked at Lydia and tossed her hair. Lydia wanted to ask her why she thought it was such an honor to suck a guy’s dick.” In the story’s climax, Lydia destroys the roses she receives from her idiotic-though-well-intentioned-trophy boyfriend Carlos, of whom she says, “No girl had been able to keep him faithful, so he was a challenge and she, Lydia Montoya, loved a challenge. She wanted to win the prize, not be the prize.”
Aptly, the collection’s epigraph is a quote from feminist Adrienne Rich, and Alvarado’s female characters, like Ms. Montoya, refuse to defer to their male counterparts. But the male characters are not all like Carlos; they, too–such as the possibly schizophrenic Van in “Can You Hear Me?”–are composed of equal parts toughness and vulnerability.
Toward the end of the title story, “Not a Matter of Love,” the protagonist, Jackie, “could suddenly see herself from her mother’s point of view. All those years of raising her daughter to become someone else, a woman who would graduate cum laude from law school, or at least marry well, and there was instead an angry girl in baggy blue jeans and an old black sweater, a skinny girl who made jewelry in a bead shop and took Spanish and design classes at the junior college.” Once again, Alvarado plays with point of view, blurring its literary meaning, and, instead, calling to mind its practical, day-in, day-out gist. . . . In this way, [her] fictions are, in a manner reminiscent of Alice Munro, subtly metafictional. But Alvarado’s collages are all her own, made from the rough ocotillo and saguaro-peppered stuff of the American Southwest. ~ Link to the rest of the review by Rebecca Hall in Front Porch, Texas State University at San Marcos
From Tucson Weekly: Alvarado’s great strength is exploring the intricate mazes of her characters’ hearts. In “What Lydia Thinks of Roses,” we meet a high school woman whose determination to rise above a boyfriend. . .is both believable and steady. Alvarado’s measured development of Lydia leads us to first understand her as a character who struggles with that all-consuming fire many teenage girls feel: the desire to please the boy, but feel confident as well. . . . Whether describing a young boy whose sister has been shot and whose parents are separated or revealing two mothers who share children and had their turn with the same husband, Alvarado is able to straddle tension in the hearts of her characters, presenting to us a world with a tapestry as rich as any that great short story writers have given. ~ Link to the rest of the review by Luke Reynolds in Tucson Weekly, Dec. 14 2006
From Booklist: Family is at the center of the stories in this debut collection set in the Southwest: contemporary biracial families, Latino, Anglo, Indian; parents, children, step-children; their strength and their fragility across generations. . . . Love, jealousy, grief, betrayal, and guilt drive the action and reveal universal truths.
–Hazel Rochman, American Library Association