“Basement Boys” in the All-Gender Bathroom: Investigating Student-Inspired Trans-Activism and White Cisgenderist Barriers to Supporting Trans Students in School

Capital High as a Case Site

The students of Capital High understand the specific particularities and culture of their school. Nora, for example, described Capital High as queer-friendly:

Our school is very well known in the board as probably being the most queer-friendly school. One of my students last week said, “Miss. Nora, I don’t know if you know this, but Capital’s nickname is the Gayest School in [the district].” I think the school census says 30% of the kids identify as LGBTQ, but all of us think that is probably higher . . . . So, it’s a safe school.

Importantly, Nora signals that the school resembles a haven for queer students. Casey, a genderqueer former student of Capital High, specified their comfort and safety when exploring their gender identity during the time they spent at the school and in Nora’s gender studies classroom, which “nurtured gender identity skills and peer support” (Luecke, 2018, p. 273) and resulted in Casey feeling safe enough to explore their gender identity:

It was during my time there that I learned about more gender identities, and I was in this space where it was totally fine to talk about that. . . . So, when I started to explore my own gender identity, I didn’t worry that no one would accept me, I mean, at school at least. So, I came out as genderqueer.

Nora’s classroom “embrace[d] students’ identities across the gender spectrum, including gender expansive, gender fluid, and gender-questioning children” and “recognize[d] gender identity exploration as developmentally appropriate for children, including gender ambiguity and shifting gender identities” (Luecke, 2018, p. 274). It highlights the importance of a trans epistemology that mobilizes trans-centric ethic of knowledge creation that allowed Casey to explore their gender in a classroom that afforded them the language and comfort to do so (Nicolazzo, 2021).

Lucy, a Grade 11 student, noted that the school had a Gay Straight Alliance (GSA) that the school decidedly terminated: “We had a Gay Straight Alliance up until about two or three years ago. . . . But it eventually stopped because students just saw Capital High as a Gay Straight Alliance type of school on its own.” While GSAs are “important contributors to a welcoming environment and fostered advocacy efforts for gender-neutral bathrooms” (Porta et al., 2017, p. 107), students at Capital High felt that the environment was welcoming enough to LGBTQIA+ students and therefore discontinued the club. Moreover, while advocacy for bathrooms typically occurs because of GSAs (Porta et al., 2017), it was instead Nora’s gender studies class that provided the platform for this advocacy. In this sense, Nora took on the work that would normally be considered the responsibility of the GSA, eliminating the possibility of a coordinated response when “the beleaguered colleagues expect a single person to bear the entire responsibility” (Luecke, 2018, p. 279) to advocate for gender expansiveness. However, that such educative work falls on GSAs still indicates a problem and a deflection of responsibility away from the system in providing resources and a systemic pedagogic commitment to trans inclusion and gender-expansive education. Lapointe’s (2018) research, for example, found that GSAs often served as “a proxy in the absence of an ongoing commitment to queer and trans-informed education” (p. i).

While Capital High is perceived to be a queer-friendly school, Lucy explained that the school is overwhelmingly white, signaling more sweeping systemic domination at place in the school: “I think a reason it’s predominantly white is because it’s an art school and with internalized and systemic racism, a lot of BIPOC people aren’t given access to the arts as much as white students are.” Quinn, as a South Asian student, also reflected on the disproportionately white student body that made up a majority of Capital High’s population: “It’s a lot of middle upper-class people, and therefore, a lot of white people. And so, it’s a lot of white queer people, which really puts a weird type of stamp on what queer means to the school.” Quinn signaled how “[w]hiteness is only invisible for those who inhabit it” which ensures that “[s]paces are orientated ‘around’ whiteness, insofar as whiteness is not seen” (Ahmed, 2007, p. 157). In addition to this pervasive whiteness, Lucy also noted the ubiquity of toxic masculinity, which demonstrates the tensions within the school; while it is a LGBTQIA+ affirming space, the school is also entangled with institutionalized cisgenderism and heteropatriarchy:

I stand by that Capital High struggles with toxic masculinity. A lot of the straight cisgender males there are very . . . stereotypical macho men. And will use “retard” like, “Oh my God, that’s retarded.” Not as a slur, but it is a slur, it’s not really something you should be saying.

Capital High’s school culture is seemingly accepting to the LGBTQIA+ population, yet it is also one saturated by a white heteropatriarchal cistem, and continued education and activism are required to combat this.

Education as Mobilization for (Trans-)Activism

The implementation of the two all-gender bathrooms at Capital High was a result of the gender studies class that Nora had pitched to be created in 2013:

I pitched the Grade 11 gender studies course. I said to my principal, “I think we should run this course because the school has a high LGBTQ population.” Though I think I was initially coming at it from a very white lady feminism. I thought it was going to be more about women’s issues.

The viability of a gender studies course emerged because of eight years of advocacy by the Miss G Project, a group of university students who successfully lobbied to implement gender studies electives in high schools across the province of Ontario after seeing growing media coverage of gender-based violence in the news (Goldberg, 2013). The Miss G Project’s success in adding gender and equity electives to the high school curriculum laid the foundation for Nora to create her own gender studies course at Capital High. This course was largely up to her to design and, as Nora stated, was initially conceived of as a white feminist gender course. As such, while Nora signaled the importance of creating the gender studies class, she had initially failed to account for trans personhood and overlooked Beauchamp and D’Harlingue’s (2012) encouragement: “Careful positioning of transgender bodies necessitates an extensive theoretical reframing of how we design women’s studies and curriculum, and how we teach and conceptualize gendered bodies more broadly” (p. 26). After Nora had consulted trans scholarship, she was able to transcend her “white lady feminism”:

I read Whipping Girl by Julia Serano ⁷ and my head exploded. That, along with what my trans students or my non-binary students were telling me and the conversations we were having in class, I was able to figure it out. And then it’s kind of grown from there.

Nora’s engagement with trans scholarship and the phenomenological experiences of her own trans and gender-diverse students provided insight into the potential of the gender studies course for challenging institutionalized cisgenderism—which ultimately amounted to the creation of the final project. Lucy noted the significance of this project:

In gender studies, the culminating activity is you have to create a social action initiative. So, I did mine about getting menstrual boxes in all washrooms because not all women menstruate and not all menstruators are women. But one of the projects was actually getting an all-gender bathroom.

Lucy demonstrated a comprehension that gender segregation in traditional binary bathrooms is a key component of the biopolitics of trans disposability that “erases trans people, particularly those who are non-binary, genderqueer, or gender fluid or trans men who menstruate and therefore find women’s rooms discordant with their identities and men’s rooms unequipped for their needs in that moment” (Spencer, 2019, p. 545). This awareness emerged from Lucy’s enrollment in Nora’s gender studies class and Nora’s own engagement with trans scholarship.

However, despite the school being gender- and queer friendly, the necessity of the student activism illuminates the dominant cisgenderist system that still obligates trans students to make “a public insistence on existing and mattering” (Butler, 2015, p. 37). Nora’s gender facilitative role is also instrumental, given the administrative failure to enact the school board’s trans-affirmative policy that dictates these very expectations from all teachers and the administration. Such a gap in the policy–practice nexus demonstrates the significance of a critical trans politics that suggests that even when “reforms are won, conditions do not improve” (Spade, 2015, p. 68); it therefore necessitates “mov[ing] us away from an uncritical call to ‘be counted’ by the administrative mechanisms of violent systems and instead” underscores the need “to strategize . . . interventions on these systems with an understanding of their operations” (Spade, 2015, pp. 86–87). What is required is deeper transformation beyond only policy reform, which often addresses individuals rather than targeting system-level issues.

Casey, the genderqueer student who was primarily responsible for the creation of the all-gender bathrooms, noted how the final project in gender studies inspired them, given that the school did not have any all-gender bathrooms:

We didn’t have any all-gender bathrooms. . . . When Ms. Nora said, “OK, we’re going to do a big project at the end of the year, and it has to do with activism, you’ll pick something you want to accomplish.” And I looked at some of my other friends and went, “I really want a bathroom.” Not just so that I can use it and feel comfortable, but so that my friends can use it and feel comfortable.

Casey’s noncompliance with gender norms “call[ed] into question the[ir] viability” (Butler, 2009b, p. iv) and, in this case, amplified their desire for an all-gender bathroom. Casey understood that “it is not only that we need to live in order to act, but that we have to act, and act politically, in order to secure the conditions of existence” (Butler, 2015, p. 58). It was Nora’s gender studies class that provided the capacity for “the assembly of bodies” (Butler, 2015, p. 59) to advocate for their needs and combat the structural conditions that contributed to their precarity.

Casey emphasized the importance of the support that their group was shown by both Nora and the school principal:

Ms. Nora was amazing. She said, “I can take you on a tour of the bathrooms we aren’t really using. So, we can just turn one of these into a bathroom. And I can set up a meeting with the principal.” So, we went to the principal and he just said, “Which bathroom do you want?” and we said, “We want one of these two.” And he said, “You can have them both.” He was like, “I just don’t want this to be a big deal, I want it to be put into place like it’s normal. Not make a big show of it like it’s something special we’re doing, but like it should have been here all along.”

Casey highlights Nora’s gender facilitative work “that teachers and students engage in together” and that entails “[e]xploring the schemas that shape our interpretations and put parameters around gender” (Luecke, 2018, p. 277). As Luecke explained, it is this collaborative work that characterizes a gender facilitative school through the promotion of “expanded understandings of gender identities, language, and narratives that recognize each child’s unique experiences” (p. 273). Moreover, it is Nora’s gender facilitative approach that exposes the amount of work that is still required to secure gender expansiveness, despite the presence of trans-affirmative policy and the creation of all-gender bathrooms. Such a reality underscores Spade’s (2015) encouragement to redirect attention solely from “recognition-and-inclusion-focused” policy and law reform that have “little impact on the daily lives of the people they purportedly protect” (p. 11).

The school principal wanted the implementation of the bathroom to be organic without any kind of announcement, as though “it should have been here all along.” However, while it should have been in the school, its creation necessitated a genderqueer student advocating for it. Moreover, the absence of this space in the school, given its significant LGBTQIA+ population and the school board’s trans-affirmative policy encouraging the creation of all-gender bathrooms, raises important questions about the necessity of this advocacy. The school board’s trans-affirmative policy is thus both eclipsed and dictated by administrative enactment that demonstrates precisely why administrative systems “are the greatest sources of danger and violence for trans people” (Spade, 2015, p. 16), because their very liveability hinges on them. It also demonstrates the necessity of having a gender facilitative conduit like Nora—who “functioned as a bridge” (Luecke, 2018, p. 280) between the students and administration—without whom such activism may not have materialized, given the institutionalization of cisgenderism in the education system. For example, Frohard-Dourlent (2018) problematized the tendency of “students being tasked with making decisions within an institution whose established norms work to erase trans and gender-nonconforming subjectivities” (p. 338) without any kind of support from educators. However, because of Nora’s investment in supporting her students, she actively “enable[d] students to be recognized and integrated into established school practices” (Frohard-Dourlent, 2018, p. 329).

Casey and their gender studies group subsequently engaged other students in the school to become involved in the project. Specifically, when asked how students became aware of these bathrooms, Casey explained that they mobilized engagement by bridging activism with education:

We started thinking about “how do we put proper signs on this?” And then we realized we’re at an art school, and it’s time for culminating activities. So, we went to some of the Grade 12 art classes, and we said, “Does anybody want to make their culminating project painting a door for the all-gender bathrooms?” And so, we actually did find two students, and they both picked one of the doors, and they came up with a whole design, and the doors became these art pieces.

Nora’s mobilization of her students through the gender studies course caused a ripple effect; she inspired Casey and their gender studies project group to assemble more students through education to promote these spaces through their artwork in a “form of political performativity” (Butler, 2015, p. 18). These bathrooms garnered attention and were regularly used by all students, becoming congregating spaces.

The Limits of Trans-Activism: The All-Gender Bathroom as an Illicit Site

The two all-gender bathrooms that were created at Capital High were done so with the intention of widespread use by the entire school’s student body, as Casey pointed out:

We wanted a space where you could just go and there wouldn’t be any expectation of what you are or how you identify. We didn’t want something that was going to turn into the “trans bathroom” and people would feel like even if they’re just exploring their gender identity, that they could walk in. . . So, we had a lot of conversations about that, and we did settle on we’d like something that’s multiple stalls and we want everyone to feel like they can use it!

Casey and their gender studies group “did not conceive of re-doing the entire system but responded to how it could be reworked” and resultantly created these bathrooms “as an alternative to what currently exists” (Ingrey, 2012, p. 812). While it was conceived of as serving the needs of trans and nonbinary students, it also was envisaged more broadly as a gender-expansive space for all students. However, Nora explained the issues that began to emerge as a result:

What has been happening with that bathroom is it becomes a place where [cis] kids congregate, and it is largely cisgender kids. . . . They vape in there and then when someone wants to use the washroom, they don’t feel comfortable because they open the door and it’s like these people they don’t know hanging out there. So, then they don’t use it.

While the all-gender bathrooms were created to dispel the stigma ascribed to those who might access them, these spaces also became social sites that deterred trans students from using them because of the discomfort that emerged from cisgender students recreationally congregating in the bathrooms. This emphasizes Ingrey’s (2018) indication that while “gender neutral washrooms must permit all genders access and thus avoid denying entry to any person; the concern is rather with how that access is represented and under what terms” (p. 779). Indeed, even a gender-neutral design does not ensure equitable access because of the pervasiveness of cisgenderism that forecloses this possibility for some trans and gender-diverse students.

Quinn elaborated on the bathroom serving as a common room where students could congregate and fraternize, rather than use it for its intended purpose:

Sometimes, I would go in and be like, “There’s boys in here, I’m not peeing.” Because they weren’t just using the space as a bathroom. . . You kind of go, you hang out a little bit, you talk a little bit of shit, and then you go back to your classes.

According to Nora, the design and the ample number of cisgender students congregating in the bathroom also deterred trans students from accessing this space because “people they don’t know are hanging out in there.” Incidentally, trans students “become certain about the dangers of bathroom spaces, even in the absence of support for those fears” (Robbins & Helfenbein, 2018, p. 271). These feelings emphasize the colonization of the bathroom by these cisgender students, and, as a result, the trans student is rendered precarious; their “life is always in some sense in the hands of the other . . . a dependency on people we know, or barely know, or know not at all” (Butler, 2009a, p. 14). Their access to the bathroom is contingent on who they might find occupying this space. And for this reason, “we must ask in what ways a space alone supports human rights or social justice” (Ingrey, 2018, p. 779). We must also ask in what ways a space might become antithetical to these social justice ventures and how it inhibits human rights, justice, and livability.

Participants remarked on the tendency for students—primarily cisgender students—to vape, graffiti, and hang out in this space:

The pervasiveness of cultural cisgenderism (Kennedy, 2018) and gender entitlement effectively permit cisgender students to capitalize and take advantage of gender-neutral spaces afforded to trans people. The space affords these students the opportunity of “creating spaces of freedom ‘within the frames set’” (Millei & Cliff, 2014, p. 257), which allows cisgender students to engage in illicit liberatory practices that emerge through their socialization with one another in the all-gender bathroom. This speaks directly to the problematic of administrative governance; while the bathrooms were granted without question, there was no motivation or desire to confront or challenge more expansive systemic problems of the institutionalization of cisgenderism and heteropatriarchy. Such an approach demonstrates “how harm and vulnerability operate and are distributed” (Spade, 2015, p. 73) to trans students, even in the space of all-gender bathrooms.

Students and teachers had to retroactively try to educate those who misused the bathroom about its significance and the necessity for transgender students to make them aware of their cisgender privilege (Serano, 2007). For example, Lucy and Nora explained having to confront students about their misuse of the space:

Because Casey has graduated, it is Nora who continues to educate about the space. She serves as the key ally in her leadership and “collaborative spirit of shared responsibility and multiple communication pathways” (Luecke, 2018, p. 274) that bridged discussions between administration and the student body to confront emergent cisgenderism that threatened the all-gender bathrooms. Hence, it is Nora and, by association, the students in her gender studies class who unremittingly educate cisgender students about the all-gender bathroom. It is a consequence of Nora and her class that students have “the tools and space . . . [so] they can challenge the tyranny of oppressive narratives” (Luecke, 2018, p. 278) in the school outside the classroom itself.

The need for ongoing activism is something that Casey discussed:

We’re worried about people congregating and looking threatening because these are supposed to be safe spaces for people who are already not feeling that safe. And you don’t want somebody who is trans or nonbinary who thinks this is the only bathroom I can use to go and then feel uncomfortable and unsafe and then not have anywhere to use the bathroom. So, we have greater concerns over the all-gender bathrooms because we’re worried they’re going to get taken away and we’re worried that they’re making these hopefully safe spaces unsafe.

Casey highlighted the necessity of continued commitment by teachers and administrators in reflecting on the “administration of gender norms [that] causes trans people the most trouble” (Spade, 2015, p. 16) and how unmarked cisgender privilege contributes to the reality of “the relentless nature of harassment against trans people” (Ahmed, 2016, p. 28). Consequently, it is Nora who takes up this role through educating her students and mobilizing activism through the final class project, which exposes “how the administration of gender norms impacts trans people’s lives” (Spade, 2015, p. 73). This education helps them consider “how the administration of life chances through traditional gender categories produces trans vulnerability” (p. 15). However, the education that Nora provides is not enough to do the work that is required of an entire school to confront and challenge its complicity in a white cisgenderist heteropatriarchal system.

Male Privilege and White Cis Colonization of the All-Gender Bathroom

While the all-gender bathrooms at Capital High are largely social hubs that invite student socialization, these spaces are primarily occupied by white young men, as described by Lucy:

From my experience using the gender-neutral bathroom, I’ve only seen white cis macho men in there for the sole purpose to vape or to pop [pills]. I’ve never seen them use it for its intended purpose. They don’t really care about the purpose of the bathroom and that some people can’t use any other one.

While the school’s population is depicted as being queer- and gender friendly, there is still a “culture of masculinity sustained” by those who are “endorsing and performing a particular heteronormative and cisnormative masculinity, which is embodied” (Martino & Cumming-Potvin, 2017, p. 137) and exemplified through their colonization of the all-gender bathroom for their own illicit activities. This was consolidated by Quinn when she detailed her own observations:

There’s a group of guys called the “Basement Boys,” and they’re skater boys or the cool boys. . . . And you’d always just see them in there with their beanies vaping in the corner and you’re like, “I kind of just need to pee” and also, “I kind of need to change my pad and I don’t really want you in the bathroom at all, especially when you’re only in here to vape.”

These Basement Boys represent a compounding of cis, white, straight, hegemonic masculinity that affords them the authority and privilege to colonize this space for their own illicit ends. Resultantly, Nora and her current students have had to build on and preserve Casey’s activist legacy by confronting these problematic ideologies and educating white cisgender heterosexual students in the all-gender bathrooms. Without Nora and her commitment to gender facilitative education, virulent cistems remain unchallenged, demonstrating the significance of having GSAs in place that share trans-affirmative accountability (Porta et al., 2017).

Participants highlighted the ignorance that governs the privileged behavior of the Basement Boys, leading to their indifference while annexing this space from those who need to use it without any regard for how their presence in the all-gender bathroom affects trans and gender-diverse students in particular:

Lucy specifically speaks to the fact that these young men are “not realizing” the impact their presence and misconduct in the bathroom might be having, and the extent to which they are overlooking their own privilege. This ignorance perpetuates a harmful practice of silencing where trans students are made “invisible (driven from public spaces for fear of harassment, violence, or arrest)” (Spencer, 2019, p. 551). This underpins a kind of discipline that “denote[s] a reduction of violence because control often becomes internalized and thus rendered largely invisible” (Spade, 2015, p. 55), to both the victim and the perpetrator.

Quinn framed this space as a safe one, despite its occupation by the Basement Boys:

I’m going to go and pee and wash my hands, leave. I’d still rather not do it with a bunch of cis het[erosexual] guys in the bathroom. . . . But I think that as long as people weren’t occupying the bathroom, the space itself wasn’t dangerous. It was just sometimes white cis dudes would misuse the space.

Such a suggestion ignores the fact that “cisnormativity couples with White supremacy to produce particular precarity for trans people of color” (Spencer, 2019, p. 543), and, given the overwhelmingly white population of the school, what might be considered safe for the trans white student may not be the same for the trans student of color. In this way, “non-white bodies . . . are made invisible” (Ahmed, 2007, p. 159), consequently illuminating the limitations of trans-activism as “not sufficiently alter[ing] conditions facing [trans] people of color” (Spade, 2015, p. 10).

Incidentally, Quinn—being of South Asian descent—was also able to remark on the inconceivability of race by the white population at Capital High:

I think a lot of the race things at Capital, people don’t really think about it because everyone’s white and everyone who is white doesn’t really think about how their race plays into their part in society because that’s one of the privileges you get: You don’t have to think about it.

Quinn explained that “whiteness is invisible and unmarked . . . to those who inhabit it, or those who get so used to its inhabitance that they learn not to see it” (Ahmed, 2007, p. 157). This ignorance is often excused by others as unintentional despite the implicit harm and precarity that it invokes for transgender and gender-diverse students. In fact, Nora elaborated on this ignorance that justifies their presence in this space, despite how they render it an illicit one through their misconduct:

That’s the thing is people use it and don’t think about it or they think, “Why would someone be scared of me coming into the washroom? I’m a friendly person!” But the reality is some people just don’t and they certainly don’t feel that way when they walk in and it’s four guys just hanging out.

However, Spade (2015) insisted that the “conditions under which we live do not result solely from ignorance,” and therefore, “convincing elites to think about those conditions in a certain way is not the path to building meaningful transformation” (p. 104). Hence, simply convincing the Basement Boys that their actions are problematic will not resolve the broader systemic issues emerging within and around these spaces. As such, more is needed beyond bathroom policy and depending on one teacher who takes it upon herself to educate an entire school about a cisgenderist and heteropatriarchal system. Casey noted that more is required than mere implementation:

If you’re in a place where half of the student body is not accepting of trans identities, then these bathrooms aren’t going to go right. . . . Even if you try to push that these bathrooms are for everyone, you’re probably still going to get people who call it “the trans bathroom,” who use it as a place to target others. So, I think you can’t just put an all-gender bathroom in any school and hope that it’ll be fine. I think that you need to make sure that the space itself is welcoming first.

Casey highlighted why they believe their activism for this space was successful—because of a large LGBTQIA+ school population—but also signaled the potential future problem that inevitably emerged following their graduation from Capital High. While the bathroom is being used by all the students at Capital High, it is still a space that provides “all the agency and visibility on the White cisgender enforcers” (Spencer, 2019, p. 551). In the absence of a systemic commitment to addressing and educating about white cis male entitlement, a culture and biopolitics of trans disposability remains intact whereby “those most worthy of social fear and erasure become the least deserving of the protections of the social contract, or even respect and decency as basic as the right to exist in public” (Spencer, 2019, p. 555). Quinn acknowledged how this culture heightens the vulnerability of trans students and turns these spaces into repositories for the illicit (Cavanagh, 2010), rendering them unsafe for trans and gender-diverse students:

I would like to alter the culture around those being the bathrooms to vape in. Because those bathrooms aren’t just there so that people can pee, those bathrooms are there so people feel safe. I would [also] like to change the level of respect the white cis guys have for those bathrooms because they’re not just bathrooms, they’re symbols of safety and symbols of our school’s commitment to being a safe place and just go vape in your own bathroom. They just assume that the other toilets are just a viable option for everyone. And when they do that, they forget the entire point of those bathrooms.

Quinn highlights how cis white straight male privilege and entitlement saturates the school culture even though a third of the student population identifies as LGBTQIA+. If this problem is emerging in the “gayest school” in the district, then it signals a more significant issue of the omnipresence of cultural cisgenderism (Kennedy, 2018) and white privilege that effectively permit white cisgender boys to occupy and befoul gender-neutral spaces, rendering the lives of trans students as precarious because of these very “conditions that threaten life in ways that appear to be outside of one’s control” (Butler, 2009b, p. i).

The impact of cisgenderism was further clarified by Nora:

I’ve discussed it a lot with my classes, and they definitely think that there is a contingent of kids in the school who just don’t give a shit. They see that as a space where they can hang out and they don’t care how it affects anyone else.

While the trans-activism at Capital High was carried out with good intentions, the emergent problems confirmed Ingrey’s (2018) assertion that “the gender neutral washroom in schools cannot be an add-on” (p. 784). Largely, the limitations of this activism are elucidated by the materialization of the Basement Boys, who are the embodiment of white cisgenderist and heteropatriarchal colonizing forces, signaling the need for a broader school commitment beyond Nora’s classroom to confront and subvert these broader cistemic forces. In the meantime, Nora and her students continue their activism by “confronting the harms that come to trans people at the hands of [these] violent systems” (Spade, 2015, p. 19), and further, by lobbying the “administrative systems that distribute life chances and promote certain ways of life” (Spade, 2015, p. 52).