Vigilance upon return: Untold stories of migrants moving back to Mexico from the United States

Abstract

My paper explores the (un)told stories of migrants who have returned from the United States to small-town Mexico, focussing on their strategies for (re)integration into their communities. Specifically, it examines how returnees navigate perceived status differences, expectations regarding upward social mobility, and questions of belonging. My research posits that returnees are subject to scrutiny in their everyday lives and are aware of this. I argue that, in response to being watched and often seen as ‘different’, returnees develop strategies of introspection and reflection. The stories they choose to tell—or withhold—about their lives in the United States are shaped not only by their individual migratory experience but also by their perception of how they are viewed by others in their communities. This paper highlights how returnees attune themselves to their social environment by either articulating or withholding their migration experience as they navigate their new social realities.

Introduction

There is always a little bit of envy. When you return and buy a piece of land, build your house, there is always envy. They don't tell you directly, but they always watch you—there is a little envy.

Juan ¹ was in his mid-60s when we had this conversation in his hometown located in the central valley of Oaxaca, emphasizing his unease about how he felt looked at by his social peers on returning from the U.S. to Mexico. While envy was one sensation he felt exposed to, he also alluded—as the above citation illustrates—to more subtle, emotionally charged feelings difficult to articulate. Juan feels watched, as though under a kind of distant observation. It is a sensation that he cannot pin down concretely, it is hard to describe and sometimes barely noticeable, remaining vague and unspoken.

These undefined, doubtful sensations form the starting point for my investigation into the often-ambiguous interpersonal relationships between returnees from the U.S. and their social environment in their home communities in Mexico. I argue that these subtle sensations considerably influence how returnees construct their migrant selves upon their return. These sensations shape how returnees present themselves to others, against the backdrop of an expected “successful” migration experience, which is marked by signs of upward social mobility.

I further contend that the way returnees feel observed, assessed, and categorized by others ignites a process of introspection on their selfhood that finds expression in how they narrate their migration experience. The stories they choose to talk about their lives in the U.S. also shapes the broader discourse surrounding “migration” as a phenomenon, and “returnees” as a social category within their hometowns (cf. Sandoval–Cervantes, 2022).

This article examines the strategies returnees use to reconnect with, and reintegrate into, their home community. How do they cope with perceived status differences, expectations of upward social mobility, and questions of belonging? How do they respond to the sensation of being watched in their community? How do they mitigate the expectations of their families and the wider social context? I argue that the ways returnees tell their migration experience constitutes a response to vague, often unspoken sensations, as well as to expectations articulated by their social peers. What returnees choose to share, or withhold, depends not only on their individual experience in the U.S. but also on how they imagine others perceive them and which expectations they are exposed to. I will show that their self-presentation—the careful selection of what to tell and how to act—is a way to attune themselves to this situation. It is entangled with this intersubjective process of mutual observations and assumptions. My focus is on the subtle nuances, perceptions, and expectations that shape the “migrant self,” and I analyze how returnees reflect on how they are seen—even when these views remain unarticulated.

My argument begins with the premise that one’s own self-positioning is inherently relational and dependent on how one is perceived by others—and imagines oneself seen through the eyes of others (cf. DuBois, 1903). I conceptualize this phenomenon through the lens of vigilance, understood as a key practice in the context of return migration and upward social mobility, while focusing on the ambiguities of these processes. Vigilance, defined here as a heightened attentiveness of non-state actors towards specific goals (cf. Brendecke, 2018), has not been ethnographically elaborated on or theorized comprehensively in migratory contexts. Yet, watchfulness is central to understanding the social positioning of returnees, whereby expectations and perceptions of men and women differ.

While self-perception and external perception do not always align, they remain inextricably interconnected. This article explores these complex interactions and entanglements. I draw on previous research on return migration, such as Sandoval–Cervantes’s (2022) in Oaxaca, that underscores the emotionally ambivalent and highly transformative experience of returning home. Thus, I expand the existing literature on return migration and upward social mobility by stressing the role played by vigilance—in terms of anticipation and introspection—in this relational process of re-encounter.

My analysis centers on migration narratives, which I interpret as telling responses to these processes and ways of constructing the self while simultaneously conveying it to others. I argue that such narratives that are molded by the dynamics of being watched and of counter-watching, constitute significant practices of self-presentation and, ultimately, subjectivation in coping with, and attuning to, the situation of returning “home.” Storytelling can be a powerful means of self-validation and reflection, as well as a tool for shaping social realities (Götsch and Palmberger, 2022; McGranahan, 2020). These narratives also involve moralized comparisons grounded in what Lambek refers to as “ordinary ethics” (Lambek, 2010: 1), that is, what actors conceive of as “good” and “right” in their everyday lives. These assumptions, however, are often contested and ambiguous. Further, storytelling is a situated practice: what is shared and what remains unspoken depends heavily on the contextual conditions in which narration takes place—in this case, on my relationship with my interlocutors.

Grounded in ethnographic fieldwork conducted in a community in the central valley of Oaxaca ² in 2023 and 2024, and informed by my regular visits to this and other locations in Oaxaca over the last three decades, I address these questions by discussing the lived experiences of three returnees, each of whom has a distinct migratory trajectory and social background in terms of age, class, and gender. All three are first-generation migrants who returned “voluntarily”, that is, they were neither deported nor legally forced to leave. This means that they did not leave the U.S. abruptly or “unprepared”—quite the opposite. Two were undocumented, and their decision to return resulted from intense deliberation, as they knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to reverse the decision once back in Mexico. In contrast to earlier experiences, crossing the U.S.–Mexico border has become significantly more challenging and expensive over recent years.

I begin my analysis by situating my research in the broader context of return migration from the U.S. to Mexico, highlighting recent political developments that have made a transnational lifestyle more challenging. Many returnees recognize that their journey back may be permanent. I then turn to the local situation in the central valley of Oaxaca, where migration plays an important role at both national and transnational levels. While national migration is viewed as a common economic activity, migrating to the U.S. is regarded differently (cf. Sandoval–Cervantes, 2022). Next, I present three case studies highlighting the role of vigilance in the gendered strategies returnees deploy to realign themselves with their social context and the hurdles they encounter. I do so by focusing on their respective narratives of self-representation. In conclusion, I contribute to existing research on returnees by showing that forms of introspection and self-observation are intertwined with mutual anticipations and shared imaginaries tied to the broader conception of “migration” and the imagined life in the United States.

Returning to Mexico: An ambivalent and watchful process

Moving to the U.S. has profoundly shaped the lifeworld of numerous individuals and created a “culture of migration” in various Mexican regions (Cohen, 2004; see also Cohen and Sirkeci, 2011). The migratory flow to the U.S. has been documented extensively and a range of highly relevant concepts have been developed. This was particularly significant in the 1990s when transnationalism and cyclical migration were theorized and applied to other borderland contexts (cf. Glick Schiller et al., 1992; Kearney, 1986, 1995; Rees et al., 1991; Stephen, 2007). These studies emphasized that migration is not a one-way street—quite the opposite: migrants develop a range of strategies to assert their ongoing sense of belonging and commitment to their home communities.

The U.S. has sought to control the migration flow with laws and regulations aligned with its economic needs. This led to shifts in the political framework that significantly impacted migratory movements by either encouraging or discouraging border crossings (Minian, 2018). In the mid-1980s, for instance, new regulations enabled legalization for millions of undocumented migrants, while also disrupting the migratory flow by making it much harder to re-enter the U.S. For some, the United States turned into a jaula de oro—a golden cage (Minian, 2018). Restrictive immigration policies and anti-terrorism measures followed the September 2001 attacks. Forced and involuntary repatriation increased in the aftermath of the real estate crisis in 2007 and the 2008 financial crisis. In the following years, deportation became even more prominent (Boehm, 2016). As a result, 2.8 million undocumented migrants were repatriated to Mexico under the presidency of Barack Obama (Jacobo Suárez and Cárdenas Alaminos, 2020: 2, 2019: 111). While the U.S. job market tightened and the militarization of the border intensified, the Mexican economy gained momentum. Consequently, the migratory flow between the two neighbors has significantly changed: since 2015, more Mexicans have been returning from the U.S. than entering the country (Jacobo Suárez and Cárdenas Alaminos, 2020: 5). This affects a large number of individuals: for instance, between 2007 and 2020, over 4.5 million Mexicans have been deported from the United States (Saavedra Solano et al., 2023). These numbers are expected to increase following the Republican Party’s trifecta in November 2024.

As return migration to Mexico continues to swell, a growing body of literature investigates its various dimensions. These studies cover a wide range of topics, such as government programs assisting returnees in reintegrating into Mexican life (Jacobo Suárez and Cárdenas Alaminos, 2019, 2020), transnational relations and the digital sphere (cf. Kummels, 2023), as well as educational aspects and schooling (cf. Hoffmann, 2024). Together, these studies illustrate the heterogeneity of returnees and the need to differentiate between forced and voluntary returnees, as well as considering generational and gender distinctions.

Furthermore, numerous studies have focused on the effects of remittances, socio-economic changes, and individual upward social mobility—particularly regarding house building as a symbol of successful migration, and as a way of displaying one’s ongoing presence in the community (Pauli, 2022: 181; Sandoval–Cervantes, 2022). Thus, remittances, often framed in developmentalist terms, are tied to the expectations of both those who stayed behind and those who return (Cohen and Zotova, 2021; Pauli, 2021: 99). These expectations are highly gendered and particularly prominent in villages, where, for instance, care obligations are closely monitored and discussed (Saavedra Solano et al., 2023: 9; Sandoval-Cervantes, 2017).

My research draws on these insights, ethnographically investigating the lived experience of returnees and the ambivalences of this process. Often, the expectations of those who stayed behind do not match the experiences of the returnees, nor are all returnees willing or able to fulfill such expectations. This, for instance, is the case when some returnees are perceived as more affluent than they are (Pauli, 2021: 101). Saavedra Solano et al. (2023) reveal that the way return migration is individually experienced largely depends on how migration as such is perceived in the respective community. Specifically, I follow Sandoval-Cervantes in highlighting the processual nature of “migration” as a dynamic interaction between returnees and those who stayed behind. It is this very relatedness that is key in shaping and transforming one’s own identity and positionality, as well as gender roles and conceptions of family (Sandoval-Cervantes, 2022: 7). I will advance this discussion by analyzing the vigilance exercised by returnees when interacting with those who stayed behind. I argue that their heightened watchfulness—expressed as peer-to-peer attention—shapes how migratory experiences are discussed and upward social mobility is negotiated: what is told, what is stressed, and what is omitted. This process is key in constituting the returnee’s self and his or her representational form. It is also a way of dealing with suspicion and mistrust arising over social positioning and ascent.

To date, scant attention has been paid to vigilance in anthropological studies analyzing interpersonal relations. While Vigh (2011) noted the negative potentialities of vigilance in anticipating threats, which may lead to a hypervigilant self (cf. also Emerson, 2019), feminist scholars stress a more comprehensive understanding of watchfulness. Sortin et al. (2021) point to the empowering and enabling dimension of watchfulness, which goes beyond warding off a threat and is instead grounded in relationality and community-building and thus implies anticipatory thinking (Sotirin, 2021: 8). This aligns with Brendecke’s conception of vigilance as a practice of non-state actors who link their watchfulness with goals beyond their individual interests (Brendecke, 2018; cf. Ivasiuc et al., 2022). This can be seen in the case of returnees to Mexico, who seek to align themselves with local expectations by emphasizing—or downplaying—particular aspects of their migration narrative. They often find, however, that this evokes ambivalent responses.

In what follows, I theorize vigilance as a situated practice shaped by the dynamic interaction of perceptions, expectations, and assumptions, which together foster an intensified attentiveness in the subject. This intersubjective process adds to subject formation, as the sensation of being watched ultimately creates particularly watchful selves. This finds expression when returnees are extremely cautious about how to represent themselves to others—what to say and what to omit. While both watching and counter-watching are inextricably related, counter-watching is not only “watching back” but entails a transformative potential that works on both sides: the individual watching and the one who feels watched respond to one another. Both watching and watching back involve self-positioning and reflection, ultimately leading to the formation of the subject (Dürr et al., 2023; Whittaker et al., 2023). Returnees seek to make sense of their experience in the U.S.—both to themselves and to others, by articulating their stories in specific ways. Even though they speak as the “knowing subject” (Skinner, 2012) of their individual experience, this is not a straightforward endeavor. Individuals make different choices depending on the social situation in which they find themselves. This is because, when negotiating status and social positioning, they are also negotiating moral values they consider “right” or “wrong”—values they expect to share with their social peers. How this works in a small-town environment in Oaxaca is discussed in the next section.

Migration patterns in the central valley of Oaxaca

A range of the small towns and villages in Oaxaca’s central valley are conveniently connected to Oaxaca de Juárez and the Pacific Coast by the Carretera Federal 190, better known as Panamericana. The economy of many of the villages and small towns along this road is marked by tourism and trade, although subsistence agriculture plays a role as well. Visitors flock to the famous archaeological sites along the main road and enjoy the picturesque, often bilingual villages, speaking Zapotec and Spanish. Some of the villages are also well known for their religious ceremonies and spirituality, in particular the intense relationship with the difuntos [the dead], who are honored and commemorated on Todos Santos—a celebration which, in itself, has become an additional tourist attraction. Many dwellers are involved in producing handicrafts, such as woven textiles, carpets and embroidery, which they sell not only to the local tourists but also to those in other Mexican tourist destinations, such as local fairs and beaches. In some of these locations, of which Teotitlán del Valle and Mitla are prime examples, migration on a national level to sell such products, in particular during holiday seasons, is quite common, including for women traveling on their own over long distances.

Internal migration has a long history and plays an important role to this day in many communities, even if it appears less prominent in the literature (Cohen and Ramirez Rios, 2016). As with other communities in Oaxaca, this type of internal migration is not conceived of as migración, but rather as “to go on a sales trip” [salir a la venta]. In contrast, crossing the U.S. border is often also labeled as going “north” [al norte] or as “crossing” [cruzar], viewed as a far more dangerous and challenging venture. This points to the fact that concepts of migrants and migration are used in specific ways (Sandoval-Cervantes, 2022: 3). In view of the increased—and in 2024 highly visible—movement of migrants from Central and South American countries toward the U.S., the term migrante had acquired an additional meaning. Most locals I spoke with in 2024 considered these migrants to be crossing Mexico illegally. Migración and migrante are fluid terms, which need to be understood in their respective contexts.

Because of tourism and trade, some of the valley’s communities are economically in a better position than many other villages in rural Oaxaca, which rely primarily on a subsistence economy. Thus, the economic pressure to migrate to the U.S. seems to be lower in the highly touristified locations. This is Victor’s view, an affluent artesano, who told me that “here, nobody needs to migrate out of necessity,” because jobs are always available locally in the tourism industry. He added that there is a risk of alienating oneself from the comunidad. However, despite these critical voices of those who stayed behind, it is still widely acknowledged that one could earn more money in less time in the U.S. In addition, the socio-economic stratification in these locations is considerable, and not all residents benefit from the tourist industry (Ruiz Balzola, 2014).

The following three case studies reflect distinct migratory experiences and accordingly, different ways in which returnees seek to realign themselves with their former social environment. I begin with Juan, who migrated as a young man and returned with considerable savings, enabling him to establish himself as a successful business and family man. I then introduce Elena, who struggled to find her way back into the community and, in the end, decided to leave her hometown. Lastly, I discuss the experience of Santiago, who feels frustrated, as he cannot meet local expectations, ultimately losing both trust in his peers and confidence in himself.

Taken together, the heterogeneity of these cases illustrates that neither migration nor return migration can be essentialized. While each trajectory differs in their way to manage social mobility and status and is specific to individual circumstances, all three returnees share the lived experiences of feeling under scrutiny—keenly aware that they are closely watched by kin and peers, and often seen as somehow “different”. Given that I have regularly visited this location, my interlocutors know that my positionality is shaped by the perception that I am a white female researcher from Europe—rather than from the U.S. As such, some spoke to me in quite some detail, uncertain whether I could fully grasp their circumstances in the United States. Being from Europe, they also knew I could not assist them with migration procedures or help obtain papeles if needed. All interviews were conducted in Spanish in the homes of the interlocutors—except for Elena, who no longer lives permanently in her home community. More importantly, they spoke to me in absolute confidence. In this context, being seen as non-local yet someone with a great deal of familiarity of the town’s socio-economic fabric proved to be an advantage.

Modesty

Juan, now in his early 60s, is a well-established and affluent businessman. His initial trip to the U.S. was in the early 1980s when he was an 18-year-old unmarried man. Juan’s decision to migrate was influenced by his cousin, who encouraged him by assuring him that he could earn three times as much in the U.S. Importantly, Juan’s cousin also offered him a place to stay en el norte. The cousin himself had never returned to his home community, had married an U.S.-American woman, and was raising children who were born in the United States.

From the outset, Juan intended to invest in a house or business upon his return—in any case, to return home with considerably more money than at the time of his departure. Once in the U.S., Juan found work at a restaurant, where he learned some basic English and was gradually promoted. He started in the kitchen, then at the counter and eventually worked as a waiter. He subsequently secured a factory job where he earned more and could work overtime, adding to his salary. During this period, he lived in Los Angeles, where he felt socially comfortable amidst a fairly sizable and well-established Mexican community.

The factory was later relocated south, close to the U.S.-Mexico border. While Juan’s income increased, he felt ill at ease and socially isolated, as he “found himself amidst homeless people and drug addicts”. This prompted him to return to Mexico and start a family. As Juan remarked in our conversation, crossing the border back then was “no big problem”. He even learned to cross on his own, without paying a coyote ³ . This changed, however, following the political crises in El Salvador and Guatemala, when a stricter border regime was implemented. Fortunately, he was able to legalize his status under Ronald Reagan’s amnesty policy, which enabled him to obtain the necessary paperwork to cross the border legally. Juan returned to Mexico at the age of 28 as a successful returnee. He married a local woman and founded a family. His migration experience laid the foundation for his current successful business. Due to his legal status in the U.S., he was able to cross the border for shorter or longer stays—at times even accompanied by his family.

During our conversation, I wanted to know how he negotiated his re-connection with his home community as an economically well-off returnee. Aware that his successful migration experience might cause others to see him as pretentious [pretencioso], Juan made a deliberate effort to appear modest and not to show off [hacer cosas sencillas]. He continued to meet the same people he socialized with before moving to the U.S. and tried to reconnect with his previous social world, almost as though he had never left. He strove to live modestly, seeking to dispel the prejudices he had anticipated from his social environment:

J: [...] I don’t know how to say it in English, but in Spanish we say presumido, right? How do they say it in English?

I: Pretentious.

J: How?

I: Pretentious.

J: Pretencioso, pretentious […] you have nothing and yet you think you have a lot. Then people say, “you have nothing, and you think you have a lot”. People can be conceited. […] When you return, do things in a simple way. If you keep the same friends, then nothing will happen. But if you are very pretentious, pretentious, yes, yes, yes [...] this can affect you badly.

When I asked whether his strategy of showing modesty and reconnecting with the same people he used to socialize with before he left for the U.S. had been successful, he repeatedly assured me that he never experienced any noteworthy problems upon his return. He reiterated that “if you come across as modest and not as pretentious, then people would accept returnees quite easily”. With his narrative, he positioned himself as the ideal successful returnee able to make the most out of what can be achieved north of the border. However, on leaving Juan’s home after the interview, it soon became evident that things were not so straightforward.

On my way out, I encountered a neighbor of Juan, called Pedro. Seeing that I had left Juan’s house, he wanted to know what we were talking about, to which I replied: “About his time in the U.S.”. “Well, did he also tell you that he had problems with the authorities and became very ill and needed to be hospitalized for some time?” Pedro astutely observed my reaction, and even though I tried to hide my surprise, he realized that I was perplexed. This, in turn, prompted a brief and succinct “you see?” [¿ya ves?]—which I interpreted as a hint that I had naively trusted Juan, not realizing that he would adapt his life story to meet what he thought were my expectations. Pedro implied that Juan had consciously concealed from me that he had to pay a high price for his migratory success. Although Juan made a big effort not to appear boastful and to reconnect with his former social network, his wealth and wellbeing as a returnee have not only been noted and commented on by others but also challenged. The price Juan had to pay relativizes his success and renders his story less glossy. Rather than a triumphant narrative, some of his social peers point to the painful experiences Juan had to endure to return as a “rich” man. Among his peers, this raises doubts: Is it worth it, given the risks involved? Who would want to pay such a price? In Pedro’s view, clearly not—and as someone who has never crossed the border, he legitimizes his non-migrant life by pointing to the high risks of moving to the U.S.

I am unsure whether Juan is even aware of this discourse surrounding his migration experience, nor, for that matter, do I know if he had trouble with the authorities and was hospitalized in the U.S. Nonetheless, the observations and comments by “stayers” play out in various ways. They not only serve to belittle Juan’s success but also to justify Pedro’s own immobility. This (un)told story extends beyond Juan’s individual case, feeding into broader narratives about migration and returnees. Migration to the U.S. is portrayed as a risky endeavor with a questionable outcome, and returnees cannot be fully trusted, as they frequently want to present themselves in a favorable light—despite of Juan’s efforts to actively counter this perception. In addition, both Juan and Pedro’s self-representation are influenced by the fact that they talked to me in my role as a “white” and “foreign” ethnographer. While I can only speculate about how they wanted me to perceive them, it may be the case that Juan—whom I know less well than Pedro—sought to counter the stereotype perception of “needy Mexicans”, but rather comply with a masculine image of a successful border crosser, provider, and breadwinner (cf. Boehm, 2012). Pedro, by contrast, compares his life with Juan’s in more moralizing terms, thus justifying his own decision to remain. Both, however, assert that they did the “right thing”. Through their narratives, they negotiate their self-representation and respond to anticipated expectations.

Keeping quiet

In 2014, Elena, together with her husband, left her hometown in search of “a better life” in the U.S. She left her then nine-year-old daughter in the care of her parents. At the border, just as U.S. soil was within reach, she was separated from her husband, who was walking barely two meters ahead. While the immigration officer let him cross unimpeded, she was held back. Perhaps there was some misunderstanding, and the officer assumed that Elena was travelling alone. She was handed over to some other men and taken into a van. Elena soon realised that she was not being transported across the border but had been kidnapped instead. Along with other Mexican migrants, she was held prisoner. The kidnappers demanded a payment for her release, and in addition, she had to pay a coyote to take her across the border. Elena managed to contact her husband, who was able to pay. The kidnappers then proceeded to arrange her crossing with a coyote. She recalled being part of a group of around 20 people. They set off at 4 a.m. and walked three days and nights across the desert. On finally arriving in the U.S., they were confronted with rifles. They still had to pay the coyote in addition to the kidnappers—either in cash, or in Elena’s case, by working six months to pay off the debt. On top of the trauma of being kidnapped, the cost of crossing the border had soared.

Once in the U.S., Elena began working as a domestic cleaner in private households and later in a laundry. Her second child, a son, was born during that time. After four years, Elena began pondering whether to return to Mexico, partly because her relationship with her daughter was becoming increasingly strained. Her parents were also struggling to look after the teenager. Elena suggested that her daughter should join them in the U.S., but the girl insisted that her parents return to care for her instead. In 2019, Elena and her husband eventually returned to Mexico, moving into a small house they could afford to build in the backyard of her parents’ home. As with Juan, she was seen as a successful returnee—a person able to invest in her own house. Still, she had not saved much, having spent heavily on the costly ransom and the border crossing. Unlike Juan, Elena had expected it would be difficult to reintegrate into her former social life. She was apprehensive that family members would reproach her for having neglected her familial duties as a mother and daughter. She, too, anticipated being viewed as what Juan had called “pretentious”:

E: They [her close relatives] said: “Yes, you think that you’re something better, you’re no longer one of us, you think you’re something better [….] Besides, you didn’t even look after your parents well and neglected your daughter”.

Elena began to feel increasingly unsettled in her hometown. Finally, she and her husband decided to leave, relocating to Oaxaca City where Elena works yet again as a domestic cleaner. They keep close ties with her home community, however; they own a house there and comply with their obligations as community members by financially contributing substantially to local community fiestas, especially to the costly patron saint’s celebration. As Elena remarked, “community membership is not for free”, pointing to the high costs involved. Most importantly, she strives to fulfil her ascribed female duties by meeting the perceived obligations as best she can. She looks after her aging parents, albeit from a distance as they no longer live together, and her daughter has since joined them in Oaxaca. Elena feels that she is perceived as being more affluent than her relatives who stayed behind simply because she could invest in a home of her own. The reality differs, however: she must work as a domestic cleaner in Oaxaca, just like she did in the U.S. She does not see herself as having climbed the social ladder; if anything, she lost social status since returning to Mexico, having failed to meet the expectations of a “good” mother and daughter in the eyes of her relatives. Thus, in her view, she failed in upward social mobility.

One of Elena’s strategies for coping with the social pressure caused by gendered expectations was to leave her hometown. And yet, she also carefully crafts her self-portrait as a returnee. For instance, she would never tell that she had been kidnapped. To this day, this incident remains unspoken for several reasons: she does not want to upset her parents, whom she feels that she had overburdened already by entrusting them with her daughter’s upbringing. She also knows that, in the town’s wider discourse, female migratory experiences are often associated with sexual violence and harassment. She deliberately sought to avoid this connotation in the first place by migrating with her husband. And yet, were she to admit that she had been kidnapped, she fears it would further stigmatise her and deepen her discomfort.

E: I never told them [family members] about the kidnapping, I’m afraid that they wouldn’t understand and would misinterpret this. Still, in any case, I feel I don’t belong among them anymore.

Like Juan, Elena anticipates how her family and social peers would look at her—and the consequences she would likely face were she to tell the “truth.” She feels unable to speak about this traumatizing experience, which only deepened her anxiety and feelings of non-belonging. As with Juan, I—as researcher—cannot determine whether anybody knows of Elena’s kidnapping, though no one has ever mentioned it to me. While speaking with her, I had the impression that our ethnographic encounter was somewhat therapeutic. Elena felt that she could tell me her life story in a “safe space” during the interview. My role as an ethnographer was key to creating this context. She consented to having her untold story published anonymously, trusting that I would not reveal her secret to other dwellers. In my presence, she did not feel “judged” or seen through the eyes of a community member. Rather, she had the impression of speaking with a foreigner from distant Europe.

Elena remains concerned about being perceived as selfish—a woman who abandoned her familial obligations in pursuit of material gain. She still feels traumatized and disconnected. The dissonance between how Elena perceives herself and how others perceive her has been mitigated, to some extent, by the fact that her son now holds dual citizenship. She hopes that this will ultimately enable him to lead a better life, offering her a measure of consolation that the alienation and social shunning she has endured have served some purpose. She hopes that she has somehow prepared the way for a better life for the next generation. She sees this as her duty as a mother—one she has fulfilled. This was something she expressed with some pride during our conversation. By pointing to her hard work in the U.S. and the bright future she envisages for her son, she can counterbalance her perceived failure as a “careless” mother and daughter. Her “sacrifice” is thus reframed as care work and thus as an expression of good motherhood.

In this way, Elena responds to the assumptions she imagines others may hold, presenting herself not as a “rape victim” but as a successful returnee and caring mother. This allows her to shield herself and avoid further fuelling the narrative of vulnerable female bodies. Instead, she offers an alternative vision of female migration to the U.S. as an extension of care work—one that seeks to ensure a better future for forthcoming generations.

You never get it right

Santiago migrated to the U.S. at the age of 18 and returned in 2018, when he was 35 years old. Upon arrival, he initially worked as an undocumented day laborer on a construction site and stayed with other Mexican migrants with whom he had no prior connection. Owing to his skills, he eventually trained as a metalworker, and this specialization enabled him to find better-paid work. He also acquired a basic command of English. Nevertheless, he continued to feel socially isolated. His frustration grew after being exploited by his fellow countrymen: he was charged more rent than others for his accommodation, which was framed as an extra “fee” by his Mexican landlord.

Over time, Santiago came to appreciate the regular income his work ensured, but he remained dissatisfied about his living conditions and social environment. Although he had harbored some doubts about his future in his home community, he ultimately opted to return. Upon his return, however, he was unable to find employment in his field. And yet, he did not want to work at some low-paid job, thus confirming that he was in an economically precarious position. He did not climb the social ladder, as Juan had managed to do. Because Santiago had learned some English, he found some work as a waiter in a tourist restaurant outside of his hometown. During our conversation, he expressed the internal conflict he has been experiencing—oscillating between the two countries and the two lifestyles:

S: ... [A]t the beginning after returning to Mexico, it was a little bit hard, eh. It was a little hard to start working, too hard and there are times when you think it would have been better if I had not returned [to Mexcio]. There [in the U.S.] at least I got my paycheck. I got some money, but here I don’t get anything. You miss the payments, the paychecks. But when you get there [to the U.S.], you also say no chi no, no, no, no, I’d better return, right? I’d better go back, but because of the money you earn there, you don’t want to return, right? Because you think that if you return your life will be over, but it is not like that [...]. Well, because in the United States you live only to pay the rent, the bills, the water, the electricity [...]. People are on the streets, on drugs. But many people think that living in the United States is wonderful. But no [...].

Unmarried, Santiago moved back into his parents’ house. He sought to re-establish social ties and convey his ambivalent experience abroad to his family. However, he was not met with much understanding. When Santiago spoke of his negative experiences in the U.S., his nephews assumed that he was deliberately trying to discourage them from emigrating, out of envy of those who might “make it”. He became keenly aware that he could be viewed as resentful and found himself labeled el envidoso [the envious one] whenever he expressed criticism of life in the U.S. This perception extended beyond his family. He observed that younger people in town refused to believe him that life abroad might be challenging:

S: If you tell this [to] a young man, he doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe that life is hard, but he wants to see for himself, he wants to live there [...]. He would say, oh, “you are envious, you don’t want me to go so that I don't surpass you, no, no, no [...]. You don’t want me to go.” And a lot of people will say: “you are envious, you [just] don’t want me to go.”

Santiago felt uneasy upon his return, facing a dilemma in which even his closest relatives withheld their trust. They accused him of being devious and jealous [celoso]. One recurrent suspicion was that he had earned more money in the U.S. than he was willing to admit—even though he had moved back in with his parents and had no household of his own. From Santiago’s viewpoint, such rumors stem from an unshakeable belief that there is a good chance to become rich in the United States. To challenge this assumption risked branding himself as envidoso.

It is important to note that Santiago’s narrative and self-representation was influenced by his view of me as an ethnographer rather than a community insider. Given that I am from Europe—and not the United States—he may have felt less constrained to talk critically about his mixed experiences abroad. During our conversation, Santiago spoke emotionally about the mistrust among his social peers, stressing the need to be constantly alert so as not to be cheated. This fear is presumably fueled by his negative experience with his fellow countrymen in the U.S. He openly articulates that he can no longer trust his family and relatives, as they would most likely take advantage of him:

S: There’s always a little jealousy, isn’t there? When you return, they always think that you bring lots of money, don’t they? They think that you are full of money, but sometimes it’s not like that. I think a lot of people want to take advantage of you, to charge you more because you come from the North. “You’re full of money, right”? But, it’s not really like that.

Because of this dilemma—which Santiago himself questions—he struggles with what to say about his stay in the U.S.; he feels he cannot get it right, regardless of what he says. Rather, he finds himself caught between narratives of success and failure. On one hand, he feels unable to meet the prevailing expectation of returning to his native land with sufficient means to live an “appropriate” life as a returnee—ideally in his own home and without the need to work. On the other, he is also subject to the assumption that he must have made considerable money but does not want to show it. Santiago is unsure how to refute this perception: he seeks to downplay his sense of mistrust, economic precarity, and social exclusion—even in interactions with close family members.

Santiago’s ambiguity stands in contrast to Juan’s success. Although both returnees are exposed to varying expectations from their peers, they navigate these differently. While Santiago’s negative experiences are denied, or at least challenged, and he is accused of being envious, Juan’s apparent success is relativized by the suspicion that he must have paid a high price for it. For younger residents of the town considering migration, these contrasting narratives reinforce the notion that going to the U.S. may be a worthwhile endeavor regardless of the risks, while those who remain behind tend to justify their immobility by stressing the tradeoffs. Santiago, Juan, and Elena are all met with considerable doubt—but for markedly different reasons.

Tell your own story: Attune yourself to social expectations and work on the self

All three cases reveal the watchful ways in which returnees align their migration stories to a particular social context and anticipated audience—either to challenge or to affirm prevailing assumptions. Each account is both shaped by and reshapes, the meanings those who stay behind attach to migration itself, as well as the gendered expectations they project onto those who return and their upward social mobility. This interrelated vigilance, however, is not a form of random alertness, but is driven by specific values, obligations, and expectations which, in turn, are shaped by, and feed back into, the broader social context (cf. Ivasiuc et al., 2022: 59). It is directed toward specific attitudes and practices of the returnees, which are evaluated against moral expectations and values. This process is further complicated by the heterogeneity of local responses: different understandings exist of what constitutes a “migration experience”, what its outcomes are, and what trade-offs are considered acceptable.

Juan, it would appear, chose not to tell me, the ethnographer, the “full” story during our conversation, but instead highlighted selected aspects of success and social ascent upon his return. Regardless of whether this account is “true,” the (un)told story of Juan’s negative experiences forms part of the wider narrative surrounding his success and reinforces the decision of some of those who stayed behind not to migrate to the U.S. This may also serve to counter the widespread assumption that migration is tied to masculinity, and that men are expected to migrate (Boehm, 2012: 73). For some, the price for social ascent may be too high; taking that risk is not worth it. These narratives make Juan less outstanding in his social environment. Juan himself, however, links his acceptance in the community to his alert behavior—socializing with those from the same social strata as before his migration, and being cautious about not showing off, striving instead to come across as modest. This case study also reveals that not all returnees display their affluence—such as through elaborate life-cycle celebrations, as Pauli found in her research (2021: 101). Some returnees deliberately seek to avoid such ostentation and carefully downplay their success in exchange for anticipated social integration.

Elena’s story differs considerably from Juan’s, reflecting a highly gendered experience, as she works hard to support those family members left behind. Her daughter struggled with the feeling of having been abandoned by her mother, while Elena's parents were overburdened with raising the teenager. Elena, however, mitigates her image of being neglectful by stressing her son’s potential future. This distances her from the accusation of having failed as a mother, instead establishing herself as a caring returnee. Further, Elena chose to be silent about her kidnapping so as to avoid the stigma of being perceived as a vulnerable female whose body was at risk of sexual violence. The experience of crossing the border differs markedly for women and men not only in terms of the levels of violence to which they are exposed (Schmidt and Buechler, 2017) but also in how they are perceived upon their return. As Amnesty International has indicated, up to 60% of women suffer from sexual assaults while crossing Mexico (Shetty, 2014; cf. Whittaker and Dürr, 2024). Elena eventually left her hometown—a choice also reflected in other studies (cf. Pauli, 2021: 101), as she could no longer fit in. An untold, traumatizing experience and unfulfilled care obligation played key roles in shaping her emotional state, creating a sense of unease which ultimately led her to leave her hometown.

In a similar vein, Santiago also decided to remain silent about his inner feelings and no longer talks about his ambivalent migration experience in the U.S. While he tries to convey to his peers the difficulties he had experienced, he cautiously hides the fact that he is working in a low-paid job, despite having lived in the U.S. for several years. He feels that he cannot get his story “right”, no matter what aspect he communicates to his social environment. Given the responses he has elicited and anticipated, he stopped speaking about the negative sides of his migratory experience in a bid to avoid being branded as endivoso. At the same time, he feels the need to watch his family members and friends so as not to be taken advantage of—or seen as “full of money”. In fact, Santiago comes across as disappointed with his own life and struggles with frustration and dissatisfaction about his economic situation and social status.

Conclusion

In this article, I have centered the stories of three returnees from the U.S. to Mexico and their gendered experience of resettling into their home community. I illustrate the subtle social, intersubjective processes—profoundly shaped by mutual observations—that influence the returnees’ strategies to “fit in” again, including which stories they choose to tell and which they tend to omit. While return migration as a social process cannot be essentialized as it is highly multifaceted and gendered, it is nevertheless framed by local imaginaries surrounding “migration”, and the expectations regarding socio-economic success of those who stayed behind. I argue that returnees are keenly aware that they are being watched; they are continually assessed by their peers—socially and economically—which, in turn, shapes the discourse on migration as an ambivalent vehicle for upward social mobility in the locality.

Drawing on the stories the returnees tell, I reveal that they are acutely alert to their peers and closely watch them. I further argue that while watching and counter-watching are inextricably linked, they create a dynamic social interaction that triggers a process of introspection. Focusing on vigilance, thus, helps illuminate implicit and often overlooked practices of attunement. Returnees compare their own lives with those of others, reflecting on what is considered morally right or wrong. Avoiding criticism becomes central in shaping how their migration stories are told. These crafted narratives serve not only to negotiate social status but also express inner dilemmas, requiring continuous weighing-up to navigate complex social situations.