“Should be the norm” doesn’t really mean anything in the real world, though, does it? People say it as if declaring it makes it true, as if a strong enough moral proclamation could bend the arc of reality. But the world doesn’t bend to what should be. It bends to what’s believed by enough people to fight for it, enforce it, and pass it down. Norms are not natural laws—they are contested, fragile, and always under siege.
Here’s what most forget: maybe 70% to 80% of any society has entirely different definitions of what “should be the norm” and what counts as “basic right and wrong.” Your truth feels obvious because you live inside a network of people who share it. Step outside that bubble, and it’s just another opinion in the marketplace of survival.
You may believe anti-racism is basic morality. Someone else sees antiracist movements as Marxist, authoritarian, corrosive to their way of life. They look at antifa and see the Red Guard or modern Brownshirts. They believe your norms are subversive and anti-democratic, even anti-American. In their story, they are defending the last barricade against tyranny. In your story, they are blocking progress. Two heroes, opposite sides, sharpening their swords.
Nobody thinks they’re the bad guy. The villain never looks into the bathroom mirror and sees a monster. They see a savior. They brush their teeth, flex at their reflection, and think, I’m the one holding the line while everyone else sleeps. Every side has its own narrative of righteousness. That’s why shouting “they are wrong” rarely changes minds—because they’re shouting it back at you with equal conviction.
This is the blindspot of moral absolutism: the belief that your version of right and wrong is self-evident to everyone. The second you forget how rare your worldview is, you stop listening. You stop understanding why the fight exists at all. In the USA, maybe 20% share your exact moral frame. Globally, it’s rarer still. Rare beliefs don’t dominate because they are correct; they survive because they adapt, they strategize, and they understand the terrain.
Moral proclamations sound strong, but without shared belief they become impotent truths—loud, righteous, and powerless against the tide. They comfort the speaker, but they do not convert the world. The world moves on power, not poetry. It moves on numbers, not notions.
The world isn’t Sunday school. It’s a Clash of the Titans. These forces—Christian nationalism, identity politics, populism, Marxist theory—did not appear overnight. They have been building underground for generations, like roots thickening under a house. When they finally break the surface, they do not care about your shoulds. They care about survival. They care about whose story will be remembered.
Norms are not born from consensus; they are forged in conflict. The values you think are permanent were once fringe. The rights you take for granted were once ridiculed. Every moral victory sits on a battlefield littered with the wreckage of competing truths. That is the messy origin of every “basic” norm we now pretend was always there.
Hold your beliefs tight. Fight for them. But never lie to yourself about their universality. They are not universal. They never have been. Your truths may be rare, and that rarity makes them precious, but it also makes them fragile. The moment you forget that, you risk becoming the villain in someone else’s story—heroically shaving in your bathroom mirror while they sharpen their blades. And while you admire your reflection, they are marching, plotting, believing just as fiercely as you do. The battle isn’t won by who feels the most righteous; it’s won by who understands the fight they are in.
