Betray, according to an online dictionary, means
To give aid or information to an enemy of; commit treason against: betray one's country.
To deliver into the hands of an enemy in violation of a trust or allegiance: betrayed Christ to the Romans.
To be false or disloyal to: betrayed their cause; betray one's better nature.
To divulge in a breach of confidence: betray a secret.
To make known unintentionally: Her hollow laugh betrayed her contempt for the idea.
To reveal against one's desire or will.
To lead astray; deceive. See Synonyms at deceive.
I wonder, however, if there is not another meaning of betray, one which refers to a situation in which one sacrifices for another, in the sense of helping them and doing them favors, and that person responds by performing seemingly senseless acts that hurt the altruist and/or her kin.
Altruism always leaves one open to betrayal. In fact, social interactions of any sort probably leave us open to betrayal.
Once, long ago, I remember my father telling me about a good Samaritan who stopped to help an accident victim and ended up being sued by the accident victim. While I do not remember the reason for the lawsuit, or how it all played out, what I do remember is my parents saying that it would have the effect of discouraging altruism. This, it has seemingly done. This act was a betrayal of the altruist.
I read on the internet that betrayal is one of the words least used in the English language. Surely, given the events of our time, it is not because betrayals do not occur. Perhaps it is because such acts are so commonplace.
If you once let a person betray you, you are naive, but if that person betrays you twice, you are a fool.
12/11/2005
12/03/2005
Canciones de navidad y de las antepasadas
I am sitting, typing and looking out at the overcast Arizona December sky, listening to music about a mother, birth, and a babe. This is a story about people who are said to have lived two thousand years ago. Imagine, a story that is so old and told in so many forms, music, sacred text, stories, about something so humble and dismissed by most of history, as the birth of a child? This particular CD has men's and women's voices and combined they are lovely, leading me to believe that Voltaire was on to something when he talked about the best of all possible worlds. Do we have sexual reproduction so male and female voices could combine in such an inspiring and lovely fashion?
I remember many different Christmases. I remember when I got a Chinese garden as a child. It was tiny and my only gift, as we did not have much money that year. But I loved that little garden. It was soil and seeds on a plate. There was a tiny mirror to create a tiny lake, and a little temple, and a gate into the garden. I spread out the soil and carefully planted and watered the seeds and it grew into a magic garden, so I enjoyed that Christmas for almost an entire year. It did end, however, and I realized that lovely things end and you enjoy the fleeting time you have with them, that they gift you with their presence.
The next Christmas I remember was the first year I was married. We were living in student housing in a graduate school. Again, we had little money. I remember getting a sweater and skirt from my new husband, which I loved and wore everyday until someone asked if I had any other clothes (I do this all the time, forgetting about other things I can wear when something I have is comfortable). We decorated the tree with bows we had saved from our wedding gifts. It was a lovely tree. I got a pair of snow boots from my new mother in law and I carried those boots around for years, until I finally encountered some snow and could use them.
The next Christmas was the year my daughter was born in Bogota, a city to which we had recently moved, and was a tiny baby. It was that year that the Christmas story began to become more personal. I could appreciate in a new way, traveling when you were 9 months pregnant, giving birth in a stable, having an infant to care for, one whose very existence depended on your continued existence. Risk taking was no longer quite so interesting.
There were many Christmas inbetween then and now. My son was born in Spain and we celebrated the dia de los 3 reyes magos. My daughter sat on the King's lap at Corte Ingles. We made 14 elaborate ginger bread houses for orphan children. So many Christmasses have passed by. The next Christmas that has stuck in my mind was the year my father died. We were living in Quito and I went to a reception at the US Embassy. That was an unusual thing for me to do as I was an immigrant in Ecuador and no longer really thought of myself as a North American. For some reason they decided we would all stand up together and sing Christmas carols. I remember standing in the back row next to the tall and elaborate tree (certainly not an Ecuadorian Christmas tree with their sad branches falling limply at the ends). I was struck by how beautiful the songs were, how my father had loved them, and how he would no longer hear them. Tears poured from my eyes and I pretended to sing, opening my mouth. I am sure people noticed and kindly ignored me.
Now, I will have a Christmas with three grandsons. This will be a joy to observe.
I remember many different Christmases. I remember when I got a Chinese garden as a child. It was tiny and my only gift, as we did not have much money that year. But I loved that little garden. It was soil and seeds on a plate. There was a tiny mirror to create a tiny lake, and a little temple, and a gate into the garden. I spread out the soil and carefully planted and watered the seeds and it grew into a magic garden, so I enjoyed that Christmas for almost an entire year. It did end, however, and I realized that lovely things end and you enjoy the fleeting time you have with them, that they gift you with their presence.
The next Christmas I remember was the first year I was married. We were living in student housing in a graduate school. Again, we had little money. I remember getting a sweater and skirt from my new husband, which I loved and wore everyday until someone asked if I had any other clothes (I do this all the time, forgetting about other things I can wear when something I have is comfortable). We decorated the tree with bows we had saved from our wedding gifts. It was a lovely tree. I got a pair of snow boots from my new mother in law and I carried those boots around for years, until I finally encountered some snow and could use them.
The next Christmas was the year my daughter was born in Bogota, a city to which we had recently moved, and was a tiny baby. It was that year that the Christmas story began to become more personal. I could appreciate in a new way, traveling when you were 9 months pregnant, giving birth in a stable, having an infant to care for, one whose very existence depended on your continued existence. Risk taking was no longer quite so interesting.
There were many Christmas inbetween then and now. My son was born in Spain and we celebrated the dia de los 3 reyes magos. My daughter sat on the King's lap at Corte Ingles. We made 14 elaborate ginger bread houses for orphan children. So many Christmasses have passed by. The next Christmas that has stuck in my mind was the year my father died. We were living in Quito and I went to a reception at the US Embassy. That was an unusual thing for me to do as I was an immigrant in Ecuador and no longer really thought of myself as a North American. For some reason they decided we would all stand up together and sing Christmas carols. I remember standing in the back row next to the tall and elaborate tree (certainly not an Ecuadorian Christmas tree with their sad branches falling limply at the ends). I was struck by how beautiful the songs were, how my father had loved them, and how he would no longer hear them. Tears poured from my eyes and I pretended to sing, opening my mouth. I am sure people noticed and kindly ignored me.
Now, I will have a Christmas with three grandsons. This will be a joy to observe.
12/01/2005
En hora buena
Yesterday was Sam's birthday. Sam is one of my dearly beloved grandsons. I remember so well when he was born. We all fell in love with him at first sight and thought his mother was so very brave, and beautiful and strong and noncomplaining. He was lucky also in his choice of a father and now his younger brother, Jacob, and his aunts, uncles, and cousins. Happy birthday Mr. Sam!
Tomorrow is the birthday of my daughter Blair. She was born in Bogota, Colombia, in the Clinica del Country. Birth is a humbling experience, making a lie of the pretence we hold that we are unique and strong. She was born around 4 in the morning. She and I were in the clinic for five days after she was born. I had my meals delivered to me from gourmet restaurants (even then Bogota had wonderful restaurants). I had a private nurse who gave me back massages. I was a heavenly preparation, a respite so to speak, from the arduous life to come. When we left the hospital, we pressed the elevator button (we were on the second floor) and we were getting on the elevator, the woman getting off the elevator was in labor, crying and moaning and gnashing her teeth. She was a very fancy Bogota and you knew that generally the only emotion she showed publicly was disdain and snobbery. Regardless of the fact that the most snobbish people in the world are rich South Americans (and some Spaniards), when we got off the elevator in the basement (which was by the parking lot), a family that was standing in front of the elevator was in a great state of mourning, obviously facing with great sorrow, a death of a loved one. It seemed so appropriate that short elevator ride, from first to basement floors, from birth to death. We drove home in our small car and I looked out the window, holding baby Blair, and saw women working in the streets, doing hard labor with their babies in shawls on their backs. I felt such kindred with them, it was a powerful feeling, to have shared this life changing experience. Their disadvantage and the disadvantage that their children would face probably played a very important role in driving me into a life of service to women's health. It was only later that I found that the love a mother has for a child can erase many of life's pains. It has been an interesting journey--being a mother--and one that has given me great joy. Happy birthday, Blair and Sam, kindred souls.
Tomorrow is the birthday of my daughter Blair. She was born in Bogota, Colombia, in the Clinica del Country. Birth is a humbling experience, making a lie of the pretence we hold that we are unique and strong. She was born around 4 in the morning. She and I were in the clinic for five days after she was born. I had my meals delivered to me from gourmet restaurants (even then Bogota had wonderful restaurants). I had a private nurse who gave me back massages. I was a heavenly preparation, a respite so to speak, from the arduous life to come. When we left the hospital, we pressed the elevator button (we were on the second floor) and we were getting on the elevator, the woman getting off the elevator was in labor, crying and moaning and gnashing her teeth. She was a very fancy Bogota and you knew that generally the only emotion she showed publicly was disdain and snobbery. Regardless of the fact that the most snobbish people in the world are rich South Americans (and some Spaniards), when we got off the elevator in the basement (which was by the parking lot), a family that was standing in front of the elevator was in a great state of mourning, obviously facing with great sorrow, a death of a loved one. It seemed so appropriate that short elevator ride, from first to basement floors, from birth to death. We drove home in our small car and I looked out the window, holding baby Blair, and saw women working in the streets, doing hard labor with their babies in shawls on their backs. I felt such kindred with them, it was a powerful feeling, to have shared this life changing experience. Their disadvantage and the disadvantage that their children would face probably played a very important role in driving me into a life of service to women's health. It was only later that I found that the love a mother has for a child can erase many of life's pains. It has been an interesting journey--being a mother--and one that has given me great joy. Happy birthday, Blair and Sam, kindred souls.
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