My identity was tolerated only when convenient: on navigating college life as a Trans Man 

Ridha Abbas

17 Oct 2024

I have always hated clichés, for example "being born in the wrong body" and "feeling like you're in a cage." I feel that cliches limit trans identity by viewing it as a body-exclusive condition rather than something that permeates every part of your life and infiltrates it like a plague. Transgender identity has always felt more to me than a physical struggle. It’s more like a battle of soul and quest for belonging.

My mother and I don’t know much about each other, but I know that she likes to drink tea in the evenings. Whenever I sit next to her as she drinks it, she always recounts the same old tale about how, when I was three, I would throw a tantrum when people addressed me by my name, and how I ripped my skirt off on my first day of kindergarten. She keeps telling me the same stories every time she discovers that I’ve shortened my hair. They give her some comfort – knowing that I’m “normal” and that I’ve always been that way; it never occurred to her that I am a guy. The first time I heard this story was in middle school when I cut my long hair without her consent; she kept reciting it over and over to console herself with what was clear. However, she didn’t have to tell it that much because we had limited freedom in middle and high school. You have to wear your uniform and go, do your hair the way they want, and obey their directions. I, like others, did not have the freedom to experiment and express myself through clothing or makeup, or to discuss any interests that were not part of our curriculum, but as I grew older and my hair grew shorter, my mother began telling this story more regularly. My identity started to be as clear as the sun, so It was our little thing and my way of knowing that I was starting to look more like myself than her daughter. 

I’m Ridha, A trans man who studies in one of the Iraqi universities, At the outset of my college experience, I didn’t have many concerns or worries about my identity since, like everything else about me, my transness operated differently. Even if I end up being perceived as merely a crazy woman by everyone, my goal was to act like a typical man, or at least as close to one as possible.  

As I prepared for this new chapter of my life, I wanted to be in command, achieve straight As, and be reliable. I also wanted people to look at me and think that I’m, as the idiom says, a “woman that’s better than seven men”.  Given that I was in a conservative city, which makes you stop looking for acceptance and tolerance, most of my worries were internal. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that my college would accept my identity, especially if I appeared very boyish or masculine. 

When I started college, I assumed I’d find consolation in studying, without concern for anything else. I assumed that pretending to be a woman for six hours a day wouldn’t bother me, but I could feel myself recoiling anytime an old man called me his daughter or spoke to me using anything other than my name. 

The discomfort became particularly acute. In my first lecture, a professor asked me to introduce myself because I appeared to be interesting. I stood in a large hall in front of 100 students, and, with a trembling voice, I said my age, and hobbies, and kept going about trivial things I liked and disliked, but I never dared to utter a name.  

I couldn’t bring myself to say a stranger’s name. When I was finally finished, the professor asked what my name was. I unconsciously informed him of the name I go by, which is a male name. It puzzled him as much as I did. He couldn’t understand why I would prefer to give a nickname rather than my full name. He took it upon himself to make it more feminine and added a ‘y’ to the name, and I could tell from his tone that he tolerated it; he saw it as a quirk that he was ready to overlook in exchange for my strong performance, I tolerated this deformation, for it was better than being called a name that I don’t recognize at all. I am grateful to this professor and to myself, as students began addressing me by my preferred name following this incident. While I won’t dispute that I’ve made some steps to preserve this—such as not answering to any other names and declining to assist anyone who dared to mention the name I’ve buried with both hands—it nevertheless followed me like a ghost on exam papers and attendance lists. When a new professor notices how well I perform, they utilize it, and when they’re not happy, they stop using it. My teachers have always viewed it as a reward. My identity and name were similar to a pressure card, it was effective. For the most part, that wasn’t the case; some of them thought it was absurd and made it quite apparent that they didn’t tolerate “this kind of behavior” in their class. I don’t concern myself too much with them, for the majority are good to me. I still recall how thrilled I was when one of my professors put my chosen name on a certificate she gave me. Although I am aware that it is problematic for an identity to be tolerated (and occasionally respected) only when it is convenient, I will admit that I felt lucky to have had the experiences I had. Other individuals in my department did not receive the same treatment and I won’t deny that part of me enjoyed what I had, despite knowing that it was unfair. 

 Because of my major, we mainly spoke English, so I didn’t have to deal with misgendering. Life felt peaceful. Professors loved me. I was good at what I was doing, and I loved my major. Despite this relative peace, people were perplexed by the way I looked and presented myself; a masculine “woman” who wears black lipstick and neon colors. I made sure to look as strange and flamboyant as I could; it made me thrilled to take something that is strongly associated with women and bend it to my will. It goes without saying that I got my fair share of odd looks, chuckles, and calls from our dean because she thought I was an “improper lady.” I used to share clothes with my 60-year-old father and had a sizable collection of ties and suits.   

I wasn’t stupid. I saw that my identity wasn’t the only thing about me that made people uneasy. In my major, we talk about a lot of political and religious topics, write papers about them, and attend lectures specifically devoted to these topics. It was evident to me that none of them had anticipated being in the same class as a communist and a Marxist. I could sense that anytime I referred to myself as such, the professors and students weren’t happy. In Iraq, being a communist has become worse than being an atheist since 2003. For them, it stood in strong opposition to Sharia. My remark “regardless of religion” anytime they attempted to dismiss something by stating “god said so” or that it was part of his plan just increased their mistrust of me. I have never been an atheist per se; rather, my relationship with religion has always been complex. I left Islam when I was twelve or so, and I began researching different religions before deciding on agnosticism. I occasionally find myself loving, hating, and denying God all at the same moment. Yet, regardless of my emotions, I continued to believe that the usual teachings we are taught are absurd. and I didn’t hesitate to say that either. This made them even more suspicious of me since they thought I embodied everything that a good human is not. 

A year later, everything changed abruptly. It all started when a friend of mine sent me a post from an anonymous person on one of these Iraqi pages where they post confessions or anonymous messages that tackle social issues and incidents. The person gave away the name of my college and university and kept talking about how they have a crazy woman in their department who thinks she’s a man. They kept talking and describing her, and she sounded exactly like me. The descriptions were alarmingly accurate and what struck me was that this individual knew stuff I hadn’t told anyone except my queer friend, whom I met before college. We eventually ended up in the same class. Things like my father’s job and information about my family were all on this page. I was mortified and prayed that it wasn’t about me. 

I spent hours reading the comments on this post, where people wished me death or worse. 

My fears were soon confirmed. I went to college the next day and the giggles grew louder. I felt watched and put under a large magnifier like an ant being burned for fun by reckless kids. I began receiving anonymous messages on my college account, including death threats, rape threats, and men requesting sexual favors and threatening to tell my father that his only daughter is a “tranny” if I didn’t give them what they want. I could only block these messages one by one. At that moment, it felt as if these dark days would never end. 

The harassment soon became more overt. What started with indirect threats, turned into blatant and direct requests. Men used to approach me at college and threaten to report me, expel me, and kill me unless I agreed to sexual favors. I felt paralyzed, but I knew that dread would do no good. I watched as my reputation and life were wrecked in a week. These people felt like they owned me, so saying no wasn’t an option -not that they would listen, anyway. The word spread, and everyone saw me as an easy target. The harassment took on a more disturbing tone when a guy from another class approached me and asked, “If I rape you, would that make me gay?” He kept implying that he wanted to “see” and “use” me which meant that the entire college knew about my identity now. I picked up my things and left at the moment. Later, I got in touch with a friend of mine, H, who knew this guy and informed him about the situation. I was surprised to hear him brush it off and say it’s not that big of a concern. By this time, I was furious. I had cut off communication with H and called another friend for help. She informed the man that we would report him if he ever spoke to me again and it worked. 

I wasn’t hopeful when things like these occurred—who would be? It seemed as though I were being pushed deeper and deeper into a pitch-black, bottomless well; I was destined to keep falling and keep my mouth shut until I eventually drowned and went thirsty. I felt like this would never end. I won’t deny that I had a lot of self-destructive ideas and that I followed through on some of them. I wouldn’t lie, though, and claim that things have improved or are better. However, I managed to adapt to it and learned how to respond appropriately. The road to recovery is rarely smooth; you eventually learn to negotiate the hiccups and remain steady as you go. 

I was told over and over again not to “show” too much of myself because doing so would just get me into further trouble, but I was unable to follow this advice. I didn’t enjoy that either, but it’s not like I displayed things voluntarily. It was my identity, I’m unable to let go of these traits, or the way I act, speak, or dress, or to be myself in general. Either I had to rip off my skin and flesh and replace them or I would die. Both options sounded exactly the same to me.  

As people began to bite, I sprouted teeth to bite back. I began threatening to report them, using my privileges. I stopped assisting with homework and tests. People cared more about their future than their bigotry, and even though teachers despised people like me, they remained on my side. After a few months of harassment, things calmed down and people realised they needed me to pass their exams and have a smooth college life since I was doing most of the work. They stopped saying things to my face. They never accepted me as they didn’t see me as a trans man or a woman.  I was just an insane “thing” that they had to tolerate. I became more dysphoric, now that I was under pressure to prove to everyone that I was a man. I had to mask my personality, and the way I speak and do things, I had to look and act manly because, even though it was dangerous, I feared being seen as “cured.”  I was forced to admit to my supposed insanity. 

After losing everything I had worked for, I felt determined to embrace my identity even further. I began dressing and acting more flamboyantly, and I was able to make some friends because my class also included LGBT students. After a year, I was able to form a friendship group of like-minded people, who respected my identity and were struggling with theirs too, some of whom were from different colleges and universities. We used to meet at my campus once a month, but little did I realise that this was only the beginning of something more catastrophic. People became skeptical because, from a distance, it appeared to be a group of feminine men and masculine women, but there was no confirmation of anything. Thus, they couldn’t do anything. Later that year, one of my friends shared a photo of Pride items we had bought and photographed.  

Then one day, while sleeping, I received a call and was sent a post from a well-known Iraqi page with the same picture, as well as a text from a friend saying, “This is you, right?” A terrible period began. I started shivering since my university’s name was there. I spent the night reading comments about how people wanted to burn us alive, rape us, kill us, and worse. But things did not end there. After a week, National Security intervened, and all the colleges in my city followed. National Security reached out to the dean of each college in search of “outstanding” students to penalise. My friends were called in by their deans, ordered to provide names or be expelled, and given over to the authorities. All because of their identity.

They were tortured with threats and of being expelled from their colleges. One of my friends attempted to hire a lawyer and find a religious figure who could help him, but they demanded sexual favors in return. Everybody was horrified and worried. Some of my professors spoke to me, vaguely asking me to stay low, not engage with anyone, and not to say anything. Others told me that they did not care what I did in my personal life nor about my identity, but that I needed to keep a low profile to avoid being expelled. Some of them pretended to be allies to get me to say things and then to use them against me. Thankfully, I was not expelled or called because the college needed me as I used to help them with almost everything. But life wasn’t the same. I stopped seeing friends and couldn’t talk to anyone. It was isolating and terrifying. 

I felt like things were getting worse and worse. The final straw came when a professor tried to take advantage of me after hearing all of this, knowing that no one would believe me even if I filed a complaint because of my identity. I had to live two years filled with the horror of verbal and physical harassment. Living like that grew more difficult, and I felt lost and devastated, unsure of what to do or where to go. I recall how every time my father held his phone, my pulse raced in terror that someone might inform him about me. I laid low and did what I was supposed to do. Things didn’t stop, although they began to disturb me less since I had grown accustomed to the situation.  

If I could travel back in time, I would not change anything. And, while this may sound unreasonable, I believe that the only reason I am who I am today, and why I am more comfortable with my identity, as well as the way I dress and look, is that I had nothing to lose in the past. I began to embrace myself.  

I don’t like to claim much credit for things that I haven’t done so I must say that my friends and community are the sole reasons I am able to write this. I don’t have many friends in real life—at least not ones that are safe and understanding. However, I started using the internet when I was 13 or 12, and I quickly became friends with a lot of people. I still keep in touch with most of them and we speak on a regular basis; I haven’t met most of them yet, but I want to. It is easy to feel helpless and alone in such circumstances, but it is different when you have others like you who share and sometimes even understand your experience, for most of us struggled with our identity. My friends were a huge source of support and assistance during all of this. Even at moments when I felt impure and disgusting, when I thought my identity made me an awful person, I found comfort in the knowledge that, at the very least, I am a decent friend. I can do one thing well, and there is one part of my life that doesn’t require fixing. I won’t dispute that, in real life, I have often felt lonely. However, my friends were always only a message away. We celebrated each other’s birthdays, gave and received gifts, and did a lot of things together. I try my best to appreciate every second of the times when I meet one of them and we hang out since I know that the moment will pass, and I don’t have a frame large enough to capture it. Yet sometimes I wish I could freeze time to this precise moment so everything would stay the same forever. 

Read More

My mother and I don’t know much about each other, but I know that she likes to drink tea in the evenings. Whenever I sit next to her as she drinks it, she always recounts the same old tale about how, when I was three, I would throw a tantrum when people addressed me by my name, and how I ripped my skirt off on my first day of kindergarten. She keeps telling me the same stories every time she discovers that I’ve shortened my hair. They give her some comfort – knowing that I’m “normal” and that I’ve always been that way; it never occurred to her that I am a guy. The first time I heard this story was in middle school when I cut my long hair without her consent; she kept reciting it over and over to console herself with what was clear. However, she didn’t have to tell it that much because we had limited freedom in middle and high school. You have to wear your uniform and go, do your hair the way they want, and obey their directions. I, like others, did not have the freedom to experiment and express myself through clothing or makeup, or to discuss any interests that were not part of our curriculum, but as I grew older and my hair grew shorter, my mother began telling this story more regularly. My identity started to be as clear as the sun, so It was our little thing and my way of knowing that I was starting to look more like myself than her daughter. 

I’m Ridha, A trans man who studies in one of the Iraqi universities, At the outset of my college experience, I didn’t have many concerns or worries about my identity since, like everything else about me, my transness operated differently. Even if I end up being perceived as merely a crazy woman by everyone, my goal was to act like a typical man, or at least as close to one as possible.  

As I prepared for this new chapter of my life, I wanted to be in command, achieve straight As, and be reliable. I also wanted people to look at me and think that I’m, as the idiom says, a “woman that’s better than seven men”.  Given that I was in a conservative city, which makes you stop looking for acceptance and tolerance, most of my worries were internal. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that my college would accept my identity, especially if I appeared very boyish or masculine. 

When I started college, I assumed I’d find consolation in studying, without concern for anything else. I assumed that pretending to be a woman for six hours a day wouldn’t bother me, but I could feel myself recoiling anytime an old man called me his daughter or spoke to me using anything other than my name. 

The discomfort became particularly acute. In my first lecture, a professor asked me to introduce myself because I appeared to be interesting. I stood in a large hall in front of 100 students, and, with a trembling voice, I said my age, and hobbies, and kept going about trivial things I liked and disliked, but I never dared to utter a name.  

I couldn’t bring myself to say a stranger’s name. When I was finally finished, the professor asked what my name was. I unconsciously informed him of the name I go by, which is a male name. It puzzled him as much as I did. He couldn’t understand why I would prefer to give a nickname rather than my full name. He took it upon himself to make it more feminine and added a ‘y’ to the name, and I could tell from his tone that he tolerated it; he saw it as a quirk that he was ready to overlook in exchange for my strong performance, I tolerated this deformation, for it was better than being called a name that I don’t recognize at all. I am grateful to this professor and to myself, as students began addressing me by my preferred name following this incident. While I won’t dispute that I’ve made some steps to preserve this—such as not answering to any other names and declining to assist anyone who dared to mention the name I’ve buried with both hands—it nevertheless followed me like a ghost on exam papers and attendance lists. When a new professor notices how well I perform, they utilize it, and when they’re not happy, they stop using it. My teachers have always viewed it as a reward. My identity and name were similar to a pressure card, it was effective. For the most part, that wasn’t the case; some of them thought it was absurd and made it quite apparent that they didn’t tolerate “this kind of behavior” in their class. I don’t concern myself too much with them, for the majority are good to me. I still recall how thrilled I was when one of my professors put my chosen name on a certificate she gave me. Although I am aware that it is problematic for an identity to be tolerated (and occasionally respected) only when it is convenient, I will admit that I felt lucky to have had the experiences I had. Other individuals in my department did not receive the same treatment and I won’t deny that part of me enjoyed what I had, despite knowing that it was unfair. 

 Because of my major, we mainly spoke English, so I didn’t have to deal with misgendering. Life felt peaceful. Professors loved me. I was good at what I was doing, and I loved my major. Despite this relative peace, people were perplexed by the way I looked and presented myself; a masculine “woman” who wears black lipstick and neon colors. I made sure to look as strange and flamboyant as I could; it made me thrilled to take something that is strongly associated with women and bend it to my will. It goes without saying that I got my fair share of odd looks, chuckles, and calls from our dean because she thought I was an “improper lady.” I used to share clothes with my 60-year-old father and had a sizable collection of ties and suits.   

I wasn’t stupid. I saw that my identity wasn’t the only thing about me that made people uneasy. In my major, we talk about a lot of political and religious topics, write papers about them, and attend lectures specifically devoted to these topics. It was evident to me that none of them had anticipated being in the same class as a communist and a Marxist. I could sense that anytime I referred to myself as such, the professors and students weren’t happy. In Iraq, being a communist has become worse than being an atheist since 2003. For them, it stood in strong opposition to Sharia. My remark “regardless of religion” anytime they attempted to dismiss something by stating “god said so” or that it was part of his plan just increased their mistrust of me. I have never been an atheist per se; rather, my relationship with religion has always been complex. I left Islam when I was twelve or so, and I began researching different religions before deciding on agnosticism. I occasionally find myself loving, hating, and denying God all at the same moment. Yet, regardless of my emotions, I continued to believe that the usual teachings we are taught are absurd. and I didn’t hesitate to say that either. This made them even more suspicious of me since they thought I embodied everything that a good human is not. 

A year later, everything changed abruptly. It all started when a friend of mine sent me a post from an anonymous person on one of these Iraqi pages where they post confessions or anonymous messages that tackle social issues and incidents. The person gave away the name of my college and university and kept talking about how they have a crazy woman in their department who thinks she’s a man. They kept talking and describing her, and she sounded exactly like me. The descriptions were alarmingly accurate and what struck me was that this individual knew stuff I hadn’t told anyone except my queer friend, whom I met before college. We eventually ended up in the same class. Things like my father’s job and information about my family were all on this page. I was mortified and prayed that it wasn’t about me. 

I spent hours reading the comments on this post, where people wished me death or worse. 

My fears were soon confirmed. I went to college the next day and the giggles grew louder. I felt watched and put under a large magnifier like an ant being burned for fun by reckless kids. I began receiving anonymous messages on my college account, including death threats, rape threats, and men requesting sexual favors and threatening to tell my father that his only daughter is a “tranny” if I didn’t give them what they want. I could only block these messages one by one. At that moment, it felt as if these dark days would never end. 

The harassment soon became more overt. What started with indirect threats, turned into blatant and direct requests. Men used to approach me at college and threaten to report me, expel me, and kill me unless I agreed to sexual favors. I felt paralyzed, but I knew that dread would do no good. I watched as my reputation and life were wrecked in a week. These people felt like they owned me, so saying no wasn’t an option -not that they would listen, anyway. The word spread, and everyone saw me as an easy target. The harassment took on a more disturbing tone when a guy from another class approached me and asked, “If I rape you, would that make me gay?” He kept implying that he wanted to “see” and “use” me which meant that the entire college knew about my identity now. I picked up my things and left at the moment. Later, I got in touch with a friend of mine, H, who knew this guy and informed him about the situation. I was surprised to hear him brush it off and say it’s not that big of a concern. By this time, I was furious. I had cut off communication with H and called another friend for help. She informed the man that we would report him if he ever spoke to me again and it worked. 

I wasn’t hopeful when things like these occurred—who would be? It seemed as though I were being pushed deeper and deeper into a pitch-black, bottomless well; I was destined to keep falling and keep my mouth shut until I eventually drowned and went thirsty. I felt like this would never end. I won’t deny that I had a lot of self-destructive ideas and that I followed through on some of them. I wouldn’t lie, though, and claim that things have improved or are better. However, I managed to adapt to it and learned how to respond appropriately. The road to recovery is rarely smooth; you eventually learn to negotiate the hiccups and remain steady as you go. 

I was told over and over again not to “show” too much of myself because doing so would just get me into further trouble, but I was unable to follow this advice. I didn’t enjoy that either, but it’s not like I displayed things voluntarily. It was my identity, I’m unable to let go of these traits, or the way I act, speak, or dress, or to be myself in general. Either I had to rip off my skin and flesh and replace them or I would die. Both options sounded exactly the same to me.  

As people began to bite, I sprouted teeth to bite back. I began threatening to report them, using my privileges. I stopped assisting with homework and tests. People cared more about their future than their bigotry, and even though teachers despised people like me, they remained on my side. After a few months of harassment, things calmed down and people realised they needed me to pass their exams and have a smooth college life since I was doing most of the work. They stopped saying things to my face. They never accepted me as they didn’t see me as a trans man or a woman.  I was just an insane “thing” that they had to tolerate. I became more dysphoric, now that I was under pressure to prove to everyone that I was a man. I had to mask my personality, and the way I speak and do things, I had to look and act manly because, even though it was dangerous, I feared being seen as “cured.”  I was forced to admit to my supposed insanity. 

After losing everything I had worked for, I felt determined to embrace my identity even further. I began dressing and acting more flamboyantly, and I was able to make some friends because my class also included LGBT students. After a year, I was able to form a friendship group of like-minded people, who respected my identity and were struggling with theirs too, some of whom were from different colleges and universities. We used to meet at my campus once a month, but little did I realise that this was only the beginning of something more catastrophic. People became skeptical because, from a distance, it appeared to be a group of feminine men and masculine women, but there was no confirmation of anything. Thus, they couldn’t do anything. Later that year, one of my friends shared a photo of Pride items we had bought and photographed.  

Then one day, while sleeping, I received a call and was sent a post from a well-known Iraqi page with the same picture, as well as a text from a friend saying, “This is you, right?” A terrible period began. I started shivering since my university’s name was there. I spent the night reading comments about how people wanted to burn us alive, rape us, kill us, and worse. But things did not end there. After a week, National Security intervened, and all the colleges in my city followed. National Security reached out to the dean of each college in search of “outstanding” students to penalise. My friends were called in by their deans, ordered to provide names or be expelled, and given over to the authorities. All because of their identity.

They were tortured with threats and of being expelled from their colleges. One of my friends attempted to hire a lawyer and find a religious figure who could help him, but they demanded sexual favors in return. Everybody was horrified and worried. Some of my professors spoke to me, vaguely asking me to stay low, not engage with anyone, and not to say anything. Others told me that they did not care what I did in my personal life nor about my identity, but that I needed to keep a low profile to avoid being expelled. Some of them pretended to be allies to get me to say things and then to use them against me. Thankfully, I was not expelled or called because the college needed me as I used to help them with almost everything. But life wasn’t the same. I stopped seeing friends and couldn’t talk to anyone. It was isolating and terrifying. 

I felt like things were getting worse and worse. The final straw came when a professor tried to take advantage of me after hearing all of this, knowing that no one would believe me even if I filed a complaint because of my identity. I had to live two years filled with the horror of verbal and physical harassment. Living like that grew more difficult, and I felt lost and devastated, unsure of what to do or where to go. I recall how every time my father held his phone, my pulse raced in terror that someone might inform him about me. I laid low and did what I was supposed to do. Things didn’t stop, although they began to disturb me less since I had grown accustomed to the situation.  

If I could travel back in time, I would not change anything. And, while this may sound unreasonable, I believe that the only reason I am who I am today, and why I am more comfortable with my identity, as well as the way I dress and look, is that I had nothing to lose in the past. I began to embrace myself.  

I don’t like to claim much credit for things that I haven’t done so I must say that my friends and community are the sole reasons I am able to write this. I don’t have many friends in real life—at least not ones that are safe and understanding. However, I started using the internet when I was 13 or 12, and I quickly became friends with a lot of people. I still keep in touch with most of them and we speak on a regular basis; I haven’t met most of them yet, but I want to. It is easy to feel helpless and alone in such circumstances, but it is different when you have others like you who share and sometimes even understand your experience, for most of us struggled with our identity. My friends were a huge source of support and assistance during all of this. Even at moments when I felt impure and disgusting, when I thought my identity made me an awful person, I found comfort in the knowledge that, at the very least, I am a decent friend. I can do one thing well, and there is one part of my life that doesn’t require fixing. I won’t dispute that, in real life, I have often felt lonely. However, my friends were always only a message away. We celebrated each other’s birthdays, gave and received gifts, and did a lot of things together. I try my best to appreciate every second of the times when I meet one of them and we hang out since I know that the moment will pass, and I don’t have a frame large enough to capture it. Yet sometimes I wish I could freeze time to this precise moment so everything would stay the same forever.