Chapter 8

The Land of Giants

Childhood is mostly an exercise in surviving among giants.

My grandparents had a special chair at their dining room table. It looked almost exactly like the other chairs, except it stood higher off the ground so a small child could sit with the adults. It was an honorary promotion into the world of giants.

What I remember most is not the food itself, but the movement of it. Bowls and plates passing from left to right directly in front of my face, carried by enormous hands that always seemed to know exactly where they were going. The adults talked across the table in confident voices about things I could not yet understand. Politics. Family. Weather. Money. Church. The mysterious concerns of giant people.

I sat there watching the world move around me like traffic.

Shopping was another adventure in giant country. Going to the store meant holding one arm straight upward for what felt like miles, clutching my mother’s hand while navigating through forests of winter coats and towering displays of kitchen appliances. The adults moved with purpose. They knew where they were going. They understood the rules of this strange civilization.

Or so it seemed.

Of course, every child eventually lets go.

Or perhaps the giant lets go first.

Then comes one of the great existential experiences of childhood: getting lost in a department store.

Suddenly, the world changes scale. The friendly kingdom of giant people becomes an enormous maze of unfamiliar legs and shoes and shopping bags. Panic arrives quickly. The heart pounds. Every face is wrong. Every aisle stretches forever.

Eventually, some concerned saleslady – a giant employed specifically for lost little people, apparently – scoops you up and carries you to the front office while mysterious announcements echo from the heavens.

And finally, your mother appears.

At which point, according to family legend, my son looked directly at his panicking, relieved mother and angrily declared:

“That’s not my mommy!”

Which is remarkably revealing.

Because by that age, The Me is already hard at work.

The Me has begun constructing identity, loyalty, narrative, and emotional self-protection. The Me has already learned embarrassment and blame. Somewhere in that tiny mind was the thought: “I was abandoned by the giant. Therefore, I shall now reject the giant.”

Perfectly irrational. Perfectly human. The Me develops very quickly in the Land of Giants.

A small conscious being enters a world already in motion. The rules are established long before the child arrives. Languages are spoken. Customs are assumed. Tribes already exist. Religions, schools, governments, economies, family systems, and social expectations stand towering overhead like ancient buildings.

The child studies the giants carefully.

Which giants are safe? Which are dangerous? Which approve? Which shame? Which become angry? Which withdraw love? Which demand performance? Which can be trusted when the lights go out and fever arrives at two in the morning?

The Me gathers this information – relentlessly – because survival depends upon it. And bit by bit, the child begins constructing a self, suitable for navigating giant country.

One child becomes quiet and agreeable. Another becomes funny. Another becomes invisible. Another becomes angry before anyone else can strike first. Another becomes successful. Another becomes religious. Another becomes rebellious. Another learns how to read every room emotionally before speaking a single word.

The strategies differ. The process is universal.

And eventually, the truly strange thing happens.

The child becomes a giant.

One day, you look around and discover that small, frightened people are now studying you the same way you once studied the adults around you. They watch your face for approval. They interpret your tone of voice. They measure safety by your reactions. They assume you understand far more than you actually do.

And hidden beneath all the costumes of adulthood, many of the giants are still improvising.

Still frightened.
Still lonely.
Still defending old wounds.
Still carrying souvenirs gathered during their own difficult journey through giant country.

This realization changes things. Because once we begin to notice The Me – not just in ourselves, but in others – human behavior becomes simultaneously more tragic and more understandable.

The angry man on television.
The terrified politician.
The offended church member.
The social media warrior.
The arrogant professor.
The bitter ex-spouse.
The frightened preacher.
The person desperately trying to appear successful, righteous, intelligent, patriotic, spiritual, attractive, or certain.

And every one of us is desperately afraid that our deception will be found out.

But – usually – The Me is simply trying to survive.

This does not excuse cruelty. Giants can do tremendous damage to one another. Entire civilizations of frightened people, The Me isolated in each, can produce war, hatred, oppression, tribalism, propaganda, and astonishing acts of violence.

But understanding begins when we notice something uncomfortable:

Most people are not experiencing reality directly. They are experiencing reality through the protective storytelling machinery of The Me. And The Me rarely lives in the present moment.

It lives in remembered injury.
Imagined catastrophe.
Future victory.
Past humiliation.
Old longing.
Future fear.

The Me is forever narrating. And yet, every now and then, something interrupts the narration.

Music.
Grief.
Laughter.
Love.
Exhaustion.
A sunset.
Prayer.
Silence.
Forgiveness.

For a brief moment, the frightened little creature stops rehearsing its survival strategies. And beneath all the noise, something quieter remains.

I Am.