“Don’t-Air-Our-Dirty-Laundry” Syndrome is Hurting Our Minority Communities

In 1983, America was shocked and riveted by the gang rape case of Cheryl Araujo, a remarkably brave 21-year old mother who was sexually assaulted by four men in a bar as shameless bystanders watched. As if the attack wasn’t enough, Chery’s case was the first time a rape court case was broadcasted on television. The sordid details of her attack, her personal life, her life as a mother: all of it was ripped to shreds by the lawyers, the presiding judge, American viewers, the media, and the very people of her town.

The victim-shaming aspect of Araujo’s story is devastatingly too familiar. But what stood out to me as I watched Netflix’s Trial by Hire’s recount of her story was this shocking fact:

The people who made Cheryl Araujo’s life hell after her attack was her own immigrant community in her hometown of New Bedford, Massachusetts.

Their reasoning?

The predominantly Portuguese community in New Bedford were upset that the publicity from the case was inviting anti-Portuguese sentiment towards their community. Araujo’s four attackers were all recent immigrants from Portugal.

So essentially, some of her own community members decided they would rather amplify her trauma, and the trauma of other women, than to have their community look bad or hold their criminals accountable.

The irony. The tragedy.

“Don’t-Air-Our-Dirty-Laundry” syndrome is a Problem

There’s a part of me that didn’t really want to write this. This is the kind of piece that hits too close to home. I like to live in a light-hearted world as much as the next person. But what New Bedford, Massachusetts went through in 1983 feels too much like the “don’t air-our-dirty-laundry” syndrome (DAODL) that harms many of our immigrant communities in America today.

DAODL doesn’t always look as extreme as the New Bedford tragedy. But it’s persistent in small ways. As an Arab-American, I certainly observed my fair share of this growing up.

It looks like our communities telling domestic abuse victims not to go to the police, because it will make immigrant men look bad.

It looks like families downplaying generational trauma or refusing help, because a therapist of another culture would only judge them.

It looks like concealing the criminal actions of a spiritual leader, for fear it will undermine the community’s optics.

It looks like telling our writers, scholars, artists, and performers not to talk too openly about our realest challenges.

Ask any comedian about the heat they get for attempting to comment on their own culture’s misogyny or racism. Ask renown feminist Mona Eltahawy about how she is criticized for publishing her work in English. Some of the same Arab male critics that publish widely accepted opinions of Arab corruption or dictatorship in English argue she should keep her more polarizing commentary on misogyny in the Middle East ‘internal’ by writing in Arabic.

In other words: stop airing our dirty laundry.

I Get Why We Do It

I get why our immigrant communities do this. It’s a reflex to a racist media complex telling the world why our communities are inferior, or not welcomed, and or deserving to be here. And as a response to the unrelenting attacks, we often default to knee jerk protests and rush to the model minority narrative:

We are successful hard-working people with high-standards. We are better than other immigrants and have earned our place to be here.

But the victims of this simplistic narrative are our own communities.

In the end, when we don’t have open up platforms to talk about our challenges, when we don’t tap into available resources, when we don’t publicly confront injustices, it’s our traumas that are not properly understood, our justice never doled, our conversations never had, and our families never healed.

We are sacrificing our own communities’ wellbeing, all because we insist on striving to an impossible standard of external acceptance by other imperfect communities.

It Doesn’t Have to Be This Way

Cheryl Araujo died tragically at the age of 25, after crashing her car into a utility pole. Vilified by her own neighbors and friends, she had fled to Miami, where she struggled to pick up the pieces of her life. The weight of the trauma of being attacked twice, once by a gang of criminals, and then again by her own community, was likely too much.

I can think of a different ending for Cheryl’s story. One where the community decided: to hell with how the media is spinning our image, we want better for our women and for our children. I can see one where Cheryl was supported and loved. Where her community was proud to stand with her, proud of her extreme courage and bravery, and adamant to see accountability so they could send a strong message to other rapists.

That is the ending I ardently wish for all our communities on our collective journey of healing and growing.