The Founding Father of Identity Theft
Benjamin Franklin was essentially a teenage girl with a burner account, except he lived in 1722 and had to print his own screenshots. At the age of 16, he realized his brother James—a man whose personality was likely comparable to unflavored porridge—would never publish Ben's actual writing in the New-England Courant. So, Ben did what any rational genius would do: he invented 'Silence Dogood,' a middle-aged widow who lived in the country and had a lot of very specific opinions about how much Harvard students sucked.
He didn't just sign a name at the bottom of a letter; he slipped these essays under the door of the printing house like a Victorian ninja. Silence Dogood wasn't just a pen name; she was a vibe. She was rural, she was opinionated, and she was significantly more popular than Benjamin ever was. People were literally writing into the paper asking to marry this woman. Ben Franklin was catfishing the entire city of Boston before electricity was even a thing. Imagine the sheer audacity of a teenage boy writing as a woman to complain about the 'idle drones' of the local university. It’s the 18th-century equivalent of a Reddit thread titled 'Am I The Asshole for roasting the entire Ivy League while pretending to be someone's aunt?'
The Psychology of the Powdered Wig Mask
Psychologists call this 'identity buffering,' which is a fancy way of saying Ben needed a meat shield to take the hits for his hot takes. When you’re Benjamin Franklin, you have to be respectable. You have to invent bifocals and negotiate with the French. But when you’re Silence Dogood or Polly Baker, you can say the things that would normally get you punched in the throat at a tavern. It’s the same psychological high we get today when we hide behind an anime profile picture to argue about tax brackets on X.
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels
Franklin used these alter egos to bypass the social censorship of his time. In 1747, he wrote as 'Polly Baker,' a woman being prosecuted for having her fifth child out of wedlock. Polly’s defense was so logically sound and hilariously blunt—pointing out that the men involved were getting away scot-free while she paid fines—that people actually believed she was real. Even Thomas Jefferson fell for it. Ben sat back and watched the world debate a woman who didn't exist, probably giggling into his cravat. It was the ultimate 'disinhibition effect.' By removing his own face from the equation, he could be more radically honest than his actual identity allowed. He wasn't just lying; he was using a human-shaped puppet to tell the truth.
A Portfolio of Fake People
Most people struggle to manage one LinkedIn profile, but Franklin had a literal stable of imaginary friends. He had Richard Saunders (the 'Poor Richard' guy), who was a henpecked astronomer. He had Alice Addertongue, a professional gossip who calculated the exact percentage of 'scandalous' stories in the news. He even had a guy named Anthony Afterwit. The man was a one-man cast of Saturday Night Live, except instead of sketches, he was trying to start a revolution and get people to stop being idiots.
- Silence Dogood: The OG widow who hated Harvard snobs.
- Polly Baker: The feminist icon who was actually a middle-aged man in a library.
- Busy Body: A character he used to sabotage a rival printer by filling their paper with nonsense.
- Richard Saunders: A man who predicted his own rival's death just to annoy him.
This wasn't just a hobby; it was a tactical strike on the public consciousness. By diversifying his portfolio of fake people, Franklin could attack an issue from five different angles without ever being held personally responsible. If someone got offended by Alice Addertongue, Ben could just shrug and say, 'Man, that Alice is crazy, right?' while secretly holding the quill. It’s the 1700s version of saying 'My account was hacked' after a 2:00 AM rant, except Franklin did it for forty years.
What This Actually Means
We like to think that the 'internet' changed human nature, making us braver and weirder because we’re anonymous. But Franklin proves we’ve always been this way. We’ve always needed a mask to say the quiet part loud. Franklin didn't use alter egos because he was shy; he used them because he was too smart to let his reputation get in the way of a good argument. He understood that sometimes, the only way to get people to listen to a 16-year-old kid is to pretend you’re a 45-year-old widow with a grudge.
This 'identity buffering' is a survival mechanism for the brain. It lets us test-drive radical ideas without the risk of social death. Franklin was the alpha tester for the modern digital self. He showed us that identity isn't a cage—it's a wardrobe. You can put on a different coat whenever the weather changes, or whenever you feel like roasting the local clergy without getting deported to England. If we want to understand why people act like lunatics online today, we don't need more data science; we just need to look at a guy in a coonskin cap who spent his weekends pretending to be a lady named Silence.
Quick Answers
Did people actually think Silence Dogood was a real woman?
Yes, she received several marriage proposals through the mail, which must have made for some very awkward family dinners for young Ben.
Was this legal back then?
Pseudonyms were common, but using them to actively troll your business rivals and the government was a high-stakes game that could lead to jail time—or at least a very stern talking-to.
Did he ever get caught?
Eventually, Ben confessed to his brother about Silence Dogood, which led to a massive fight and Ben running away to Philadelphia. Pro tip: Don't tell your boss you're the one making fun of him on the internet.
