October 14, 2025, 1:06 PM GMT+1
In the early years of the 1970s—an era that existed long before the omnipresence of social media and more than a decade prior to the arrival of even the most rudimentary online message boards—a remarkable woman named Peggie Ames took it upon herself to become a living, breathing directory for trans women across New York State. Born and raised in Buffalo, Ames dedicated a significant portion of her adult life to advocacy, laboring within gay rights organizations scattered throughout the rural towns and suburban pockets of Western New York. At a time when there were no online communities and geographic distance often meant social isolation, meeting another trans person beyond the crowded heart of New York City’s urban sprawl was a formidable challenge. Yet through steadfast work with groups such as the Erickson Educational Foundation—which devoted its resources to advancing understanding and research on trans medical care—and the Mattachine Society of the Niagara Frontier, a local extension of one of the earliest gay rights organizations in pre-Stonewall America, Ames forged an intricate web of relationships that stretched far beyond her immediate surroundings.
Her public life changed irrevocably in 1973 when she was forcibly outed, thrusting her into unwilling visibility. Instead of retreating, Ames became one of the very few openly transsexual women recognized by name and presence at the time—a position that carried both danger and influence. To the growing number of trans women searching desperately for connection in an age defined by secrecy, she became a point of reference, a guiding node through which many sought introduction to others like themselves. By the close of that decade, she personally estimated that her network reached more than a hundred trans people scattered throughout Western New York alone. In her eyes, this was more than coincidence—it was an ethical responsibility, a calling to stitch together the fragmented threads of a community that society preferred to render invisible.
Ames was not unique, though she was among a small constellation of trans women who quietly maintained clandestine communication networks during the 1970s and 1980s. Their method was both simple and ingenious. A publicly visible and well-connected trans woman might receive a handwritten letter from someone in another state seeking guidance or contact. She would respond not merely with words of encouragement but with tangible bridges—names, addresses, and introductions drawn from her personal notebook. In an age when anonymity was protective armor yet also a barrier to belonging, these pen pal systems operated as the lifelines of an invisible world. For many isolated trans people, a letter arriving unexpectedly in the mail could mean the difference between despair and hope.
From the vantage point of the twenty-first century, this grassroots model of activism may seem almost quaint, even antiquated, when compared with the boundless, hyperconnected digital ecosystems of today’s online communities. Terminology itself has continued to evolve: the word ‘transsexual,’ once widely used, gave way to ‘transgender,’ and in recent years, some have chosen to reclaim the former to center the tangible, bodily realities of transition in contrast to the often abstract identity politics of assimilation common during the previous decades. This conscious reclamation is not merely linguistic—it reflects a broader philosophical resistance to the utopian narratives of inclusivity that characterized the 2010s, when mainstream media celebrated trans visibility with glossy covers, policy wins, and the symbolic promise of cultural acceptance embodied by celebrities such as Laverne Cox. For a fleeting moment, it appeared that history’s moral trajectory was bending permanently toward liberation.
Yet, predictably, backlash followed. The furious attempts to scapegoat trans people—culminating in unfounded accusations, including outlandish claims connecting them to acts of violence—represent only the latest and most virulent manifestation of an escalating anti-trans movement. What began as fringe hostility festering in obscure online spaces and low-tier celebrity outbursts gradually metastasized into a mainstream political crusade, bolstered by reactionary media outlets and institutional power. Within a few decades, trans individuals, once living at the margins and largely unseen, were catapulted into public consciousness only to be vilified, blamed for social ills they statistically had no involvement in, and targeted through legislative attacks designed to criminalize their very existence. Many who had once celebrated their newfound visibility now live in perpetual tension—public figures in a time when authoritarian systems have declared their existence suspect.
Nevertheless, this is not a chapter for despair but rather one demanding strategic transformation. The same social media platforms once heralded as engines of global democratization have devolved into vast instruments of surveillance and commodified distraction. Instead of leveraging technology to organize resistance or cultivate genuine solidarity, many find themselves trapped in endless cycles of reactive scrolling, feeding the profit algorithms of social media moguls. Under administrations that have demonstrated open hostility—most infamously during Donald Trump’s tenure—the fusion of artificial intelligence with state surveillance has reached dystopian proportions. Multiple federal agencies now collaborate with AI-driven analytics firms capable of dissecting social media sentiment, effectively turning digital self-expression into data points for control. Beyond the online realm, innovations such as facial recognition intersect with gendered policing, creating fresh dangers for anyone whose appearance defies societal expectations of gender conformity. The result is an existential paradox: to exist visibly is to risk state scrutiny; to hide is to forfeit connection.
And yet, perhaps, the answer lies not in retreat but in reconfiguration. Figures like Peggie Ames remind us that survival has often required subterfuge, discretion, and an ability to navigate between visibility and invisibility. Scholars such as Toby Beauchamp, in works like *Going Stealth: Transgender Politics and U.S. Surveillance Practices*, trace a long lineage of trans individuals who mastered the art of selective obscurity—a purposeful concealment meant not to deceive but to reclaim agency under an invasive gaze. Beauchamp’s research illustrates how suspicion in American life has frequently been projected onto bodies that diverge from dominant notions of normalcy. From the example of police responding to reports of a ‘suspicious man in a wig’ after the Virginia Tech shooting, to the bureaucratic warfare over gender markers on identification documents, the state persistently seeks to render difference legible for the purpose of control. Policies designed to erase discrepancies between one’s identity papers and physical self are, in reality, mechanisms for exposure intended to subject trans bodies to continual interrogation in airports, restrooms, and countless other public settings.
Given this climate, it is unsurprising that many trans people are increasingly choosing subtlety over spectacle, withdrawing from broadcast visibility and constructing modes of community wisdom that value privacy as self-protection. This does not imply total seclusion but rather the cultivation of layered existences that balance personal safety with selective openness. Writer Margaret Killjoy calls this hybrid approach the ‘demiground,’ envisioning a spectrum between full online exposure and complete offline secrecy. In this model, individuals divide their lives into multiple spheres of visibility: one public-facing persona calibrated for safety and acceptability, and other, more intimate layers reserved for trusted circles and authentic organizing. The demiground encourages fluid navigation across these layers, acknowledging that political resistance and personal fulfillment often depend on knowing when to speak and when to remain unseen.
This philosophy is not unprecedented. Communities long subjected to state persecution—among them sex workers, migrants, and activists—have employed similar strategies for decades, shifting delicate conversations to encrypted platforms or closed networks while preserving the vitality of face-to-face relationships. Within contemporary queer and trans circles, this ethos manifests through encrypted group chats, alternative digital spaces, and renewed emphasis on physical mutual aid. The essential lesson is that digital tools should function as facilitators, not replacements, for local connection and in-person organizing. Without that grounding, online discourse risks becoming merely performative content—ephemeral noise devoid of material impact.
As political conditions deteriorate, the labor of survival will increasingly depend on what occurs beneath the radar—in those clandestine, semi-private networks that channel resources, arrange safe relocations, or coordinate access to medical care. These efforts often tread in legal gray zones, similar to the underground infrastructures supporting abortion access in hostile jurisdictions. Their effectiveness relies upon discretion—the ‘if you know, you know’ principle that minimizes exposure while maximizing mutual trust. This is the spirit of the underground that Peggie Ames embodied: unglamorous, unmonetized work born from necessity rather than attention. Her life is a testament to the enduring power of care networks created in defiance of exclusion. Though subjected to ostracism within certain feminist spaces and forever under scrutiny for her gender expression, she used her visibility not for fame but for connection, operating as a quiet architect of community when the world refused to make space for hers.
Modern social media, despite its historical role in helping trans individuals find language and companionship, cannot replace the authenticity of such direct human connection. The digital revolution expanded awareness, yes—but it also commodified identity, making even solidarity a spectacle. The underground networks of the 1970s were not glamorous; they were built from ink, envelopes, and faith. Today, they serve as poignant reminders that queer and trans survival has always depended on adaptability, creativity, and the courage to exist in the nuanced territories between visibility and anonymity. In 2025, as the global internet reaches new extremes of algorithmic control, the moral of Peggie Ames’s story endures: our liberation will not be televised, but it will continue to evolve in the quiet, persistent networks of care that thrive in the spaces between light and shadow.
Sourse: https://www.theverge.com/cs/features/798493/trans-underground-organizing
