The Grammar of Wrongness: On Living in a World that Doesn't Change

Dick Gariepy | Big Thinky Ouchey

Sometimes I forget where I am, literally. I lose track of which city I’m in. The streets look familiar but wrong, like a dream version of somewhere I used to know. It’s hard to tell whether I’m in Calgary or Toronto, or some borderland between them where neither place is home. I'm not trying to use metaphors. I feel I'm becoming untethered. I’m unsure if I can tell what is actually right or wrong. I'm unsure if I should even care anymore. 

A striking and dramatic portrait with the phrase "The Grammar of Wrongness" in bold red letters, featuring a person with an intense gaze beneath a fiery halo, set against a dark, moody background.

Right now, I’m going through something. I won’t get into the details, not because they’re private (though some are), and not because they’re too intense to name (though some might be), but because the point isn’t the specifics. The point is the shape of the thing.

There’s a wrongness moving through my life. It’s not a sharp event, not a single breach. It’s more like a slow erosion. A persistent tension between what’s happening and what should be happening. A sense that something essential is misaligned, and that misalignment is being seen, recognized, even agreed with—but not interrupted.

I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m not making a spectacle of pain. I’m just trying to understand what happens when something clearly unjust is allowed to persist. Not because no one knows. But because no one acts.

That’s the terrain I’m writing from. Not from despair, exactly. But from disorientation. From that uncanny place where moral clarity meets real-world inertia. Where "this is wrong" becomes a kind of echo, bouncing off walls that don’t respond.

There is a moment when you say, "this is wrong," and the weight of those words presses against the space between you and the world. The wrongness is clear, unmistakable, and inescapable. Yet, as soon as you speak, it hangs in the air, and the world does not shift to accommodate it. The tension between what is and what should be stretches thin. You utter the words, and then… nothing. The wrongness persists, unacknowledged by actions, untouched by any form of meaningful response.

We often speak about wrongness, but rarely do we reflect on the structure of that speech act. What does it mean when we say "this is wrong"? It’s not just a statement of fact or a rhetorical flourish. It’s an act of pointing, a way of saying: This should not be. It is a moral gesture, a plea for the world to move, for something to change. But what happens when that request goes unanswered?

I find myself in a constant loop of this recognition, caught between the clarity of what is wrong and the absence of action. The words come, they feel true, but they don’t move anything. They don’t make the world shift. They don’t stop the harm. And I wonder: when I say something is wrong, what is it I am asking for? What does it mean to live in a world where harm is named but not corrected?

In G.E.M. Anscombe’s writings on intention, she argues that intention isn’t found in what we say or even in what we feel, but in what we do.  If I tell you I’m going to the store, and then instead go upstairs to bed, my intention is revealed not by the sentence, but by the staircase. By the fact that I didn’t go. This rings truer the more I apply it to the moral language we use. If I say “this is wrong” but then act in a way that allows the wrong to persist, what does that say about my intention? Was the utterance ever really meant to create change, or was it just a momentary relief from discomfort? Was it enough simply to name the wrongness, to feel that temporary moral clarity, without having to do anything about it?

All language or communication is inherently goal-oriented because every act of communication seeks to achieve a purpose or intention. Whether it's conveying information, persuading someone, expressing emotions, seeking understanding, or asserting authority, each communication serves a goal. Even in casual conversation, the goal might be as simple as maintaining social bonds or sharing experiences. This goal orientation shapes the content, style, and effectiveness of communication, emphasizing its purpose-driven nature in human interaction.

so what is the intented outcome of someone s utterance "This is wrong"? When I map out the dynamics of this situation, it seems there are only a few possibilities for how things unfold:

1. The speech contradicts itself. I say “this is wrong,” and yet I do nothing to stop the wrong. Perhaps I avoid conflict, stay silent, or simply let the harm continue. In this case, the act of speaking collapses under the weight of my inaction. The words are spoken, but the intention doesn’t reach the ground. It was a hollow gesture, a release of pressure that ultimately shifts nothing.

2. The speech lingers but does not alter anything. I say “this is wrong,” but I don’t intervene. I don’t resist, but I don’t enable either. The wrongness remains. The statement becomes like a cloud passing through the room, there for a moment, and then gone. It doesn’t stay to reshape anything. It doesn’t change the trajectory. It’s as if the words were uttered into a vacuum, and they vanish without leaving a mark.

3. The speech is followed by action. I say “this is wrong,” and then I take some action, however small, to interrupt the conditions that make it wrong. This is the moment when the speech act becomes genuine. It is no longer just a statement; it becomes part of a larger relational shift. The words and the actions align, creating a new possibility. This is the only instance where the wrongness feels acknowledged in a way that makes sense. Not just grammatically, but ethically. When we say, "this is wrong," we are making a moral claim. But the weight of that claim is only as strong as the actions it prompts. If we declare something to be wrong and then continue to do it, or simply allow it to persist without response, we undermine the very meaning of our words. This is not just a failure of action; it reveals a fundamental disconnect between our stated beliefs and our behavior.

Moral claims are not just expressions; they are calls for change. The very act of identifying something as wrong implies the intention to alter the state of affairs, whether that be by ceasing the harmful action, addressing it, or calling others to act. But if the wrong continues unchecked, then the claim of wrongness loses its power. It becomes a dissonant note, signaling not a genuine commitment to change, but rather an implicit acceptance of the wrong.

Saying "this is wrong" without backing it up with action invalidates the claim. It suggests that we either do not truly believe in the wrongness of the situation, or that we feel powerless or indifferent to change it. Either way, our actions expose the truth: moral judgment is only meaningful when it is accompanied by a willingness to act on it. Without that action, the moral claim becomes not a call for justice, but a hollow declaration.

It’s important to note that this isn’t about scale. It’s not about solving the problem in one go. It’s about whether the intention behind the words is sincere enough to change something, even if that change is incremental. Perhaps the small, steady shifts are all we can hope for in addressing systemic wrongness. But even in the macro, structural sense, we must ask: what does it mean for a wrong to be acknowledged in the present moment, in front of me, right here, right now?

When I say "this is wrong," I don’t mean it as an abstract, theoretical wrong. I’m not merely pointing to an injustice that exists somewhere, over there, in the future. I’m talking about the wrongness that is happening to me, now, in this moment. It’s personal. It’s immediate. And if it’s wrong, then the next moment should look different. If the world is truly wrong, if my experience of harm is truly wrong, then the world should respond to that acknowledgment. Otherwise, I begin to wonder: what does it mean to say something is wrong if nothing changes?

When people express agreement with my perspective—affirmatively saying, “Yes, you’re right; this is wrong”—it initially feels validating and encouraging. Yet, I've come to resent it, because that moment of affirmation is invariably followed by inaction: no tangible steps to resist, no efforts to refuse complicity in the ongoing harm. This creates a dissonance that's impossible to ignore. The agreement begins to feel hollow, resembling a well-meaning wish or a fleeting desire for a better world, but lacking the essential commitment to change. When people affirm, "Yes, this is wrong," but do nothing, what their actions reveal is not a recognition of true wrongness, but merely a wish that it were wrong—without believing it is, in any meaningful sense.

This dynamic raises profound questions about our collective moral responsibility. The line between condemnation and consent blurs, not through deliberate intent, but because the gap between voicing outrage and taking action is narrower than we often admit. When individuals express discontent with the status quo yet fail to act, it signals a troubling complacency, one rooted in fear of consequences, a sense of powerlessness, or the illusion that words alone suffice.

This complacency erodes the connection between our values and behaviors, turning moral language into a facade: a way to signal awareness without the discomfort of follow-through. Over time, it fosters a culture of inaction, where voicing disapproval becomes a comfort zone, allowing passive participation in systems of injustice. In this way, silence and inertia can be seen as tacit consent, perpetuating the harm we claim to oppose.

Ultimately, articulating beliefs and standing against wrongdoing is vital, but our convictions must be backed by concrete actions. Only then can we bridge the divide between condemnation and consent, creating a world where change is not just desired but pursued. This demands a collective awakening: recognizing injustice is merely the start; we must mobilize to combat it, transforming good intentions into impactful deeds for a more just and equitable society.

This is where I struggle—not with any individual, but with the world's very structure. If the wrongness is real and true, it cannot be allowed to persist. If others see and name it, yet nothing changes, I must question whether their acknowledgment was ever genuine. Was it truly about the wrongness, or something else—a performative compassion that avoids the discomfort of action?

If it were truly wrong, action would follow; since it doesn't, does that mean it's not wrong for this to happen to me? If it's not wrong, does that make it right? Is it right for me to suffer so deeply? Is it right for my physical and mental well-being to be in such extreme jeopardy? Does that imply the more I suffer, the more "right" it becomes? And if what's right isn't also what's good, does ultimate good lie in my death?

The struggle lies in how we live with these moments, how we reconcile the clarity of recognizing wrongness with the crushing weight of a world that refuses to move. If nothing changes, then perhaps the wrongness isn’t actually wrong in practice. Perhaps it’s me who is wrong for expecting the world to respond. And yet, how can I live with that conclusion?

I’m not asking for anyone to solve it. I don’t expect any immediate fixes. I just need to name this dynamic for what it is. Because the recognition of wrongness, when it’s followed by nothing, is slowly eating away at me. It’s become the very structure of my reality. I can’t keep saying “this is wrong” when the world acts as though it isn’t. The silence that follows feels like a betrayal of the truth I’m holding. And when truth isn’t acted upon, it begins to feel like gaslighting—not because anyone intends to deceive me, but because the lack of response creates a void where meaning used to be.

Right now, I am disoriented, grieving, and struggling to understand where I am in a world that seems unable to move. I am not sure how to reconcile the moral clarity of what is wrong with the absence of any real change. It is as if I am walking through a familiar place, but nothing fits. It’s like being trapped between two worlds—one that sees the wrongness and another that continues to let it persist.

And so, I keep moving. I keep trying to find a place where the wrongness can land, where it can be heard, where it can create change. But sometimes it feels like the only way to survive is to keep walking, to keep moving through the world that fails to acknowledge my pain. Not because I want to, but because I have no other choice.

And that’s all.

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Thick Thought Thumper of the Week---> 'THIS IS WRONG'

Works cited Anscombe, G. E. M. (1963). Intention ([2nd ed.]). Blackwell.