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41 2. “ Aren’t You Scared?” The Changing Face of Oppression in Rural, Migrant-Sending Mexico Aren’t you scared? This was the most common phrase that I heard from community members in Villachuato, not only during my initial weeks in the town but throughout the ten months I spent there. “A big house like that,” people would say to me. “And you’re all alone there. Aren’t you scared?” I settled in Villachuato to conduct research on Mexican migrant students ’ educational backgrounds because of a personal connection: an old college friend whose family originated from Villachuato. My friend, Nicole Ramírez, is the last of ten children and the only member of her family to attend formal schooling past high school. When I mentioned my research plans, she encouraged me to consider Villachuato as a site, both because of its strong migratory ties to the United States and because of her own family’s continued ties to the town—ties that, she persuaded me, would serve as the kind of social capital that a foreign researcher would need in order to connect with the community in ways that would make a research endeavor successful. She was right. Less than a week after my arrival, I had been invited into three different homes, and a number of other people—all women and children—had greeted me or struck up conversations with me on the street. They knew the Ramírezes. The most financially successful of Villachuato’s migrant families, the Ramírezes have done much over the years to help community members back home. Their strong reputation in town was undoubtedly helpful to me, 42 “aren’t you scared?” opening doors and encouraging trust where it might otherwise have been much more difficult to come by. All the same, the distinction between me and my neighbors was pronounced . I was a foreigner, and a woman traveling alone. The latter fact in and of itself made me markedly different: Most women in Villachuato do not leave their town, and they certainly do not do so alone. Moreover, the house I lived in—alone, for the vast majority of my time in Villachuato—was tremendous: six thousand square feet, it held enough bedrooms for each of the Ramírez family members to have their own sleeping quarters, should the entire family visit Mexico all at once. Ten rooms, I counted—twelve, thirteen. The house was huge: block-like and labyrinthine all at the same time. It wasn’t a stretch to feel overwhelmed and a bit skittish: Bats nestled in some of the rafters; an array of new sounds drifted in the windows as I slept. So, early on, my neighbors’ question had seemed appropriate. Scared? Yes—a bit. But I was determined to succeed in Villachuato, so I did my best to set my own fears aside and to deflect inquiries with a gracious smile: “Oh, you know, it’s not that bad,” I explained. “I know my neighbors well, so I don’t feel so alone. And I only stay in a small corner of the house, anyway.” For the most part, it worked; I believed my own answers. But the question didn’t stop coming. “Aren’t you scared?” women on the street would whisper to me, nodding toward the looming house. “Aren’t you scared?” children would giggle when they ran up to greet me on the street. Scared, scared, scared—aren’t you scared? Danger, Fear, and the Impact of Participant Observation In some ways, my neighbors were right: My stay in Villachuato was at least theoretically imbued with physical danger. For instance, while I sat at the bus stop at the edge of town (figure 2.1) a few days after my arrival, a group of men in a pickup truck trundled to a stop in front of me. Eight eyes settled on me. I glanced back briefly, then looked away; their stares were intimidating. For several minutes, the pickup truck sat there idling. The day was bright all around us. Telephone wires crisscrossed their way over the street; the lilt of a radio thrummed in the distance: norteño music. I was aware, in that moment, that I was neither completely vulnerable nor completely safe. The bus stop sat along the highway, just at the edge of town. Across the street, an abarrotes (local supplies) store was open for business; surely, someone was inside. From time to time, another vehicle passed us by, slowed...

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