Hawthorn Hill Journal by Richard deRosa
What’s In a Name?
It now appears the renaming craze has moved from statues, schools, colleges, highways and who knows what else, to birds. The American Ornithological Society, the group that decides each bird’s moniker, has joined the fray and announced that “it would rename all species honoring people.” It claims that names attached to people “… can be harmful, exclusive and detract from the focus, appreciation or consideration of the birds themselves.”
Who knows how far and deep the renaming mania might go. Seems as if this recent spate of cultural activism knows no bounds. Curmudgeon that I am, perhaps I should change my name to something more descriptive of my essential personality than Richard or James (middle name). I remember my mother once remarking on her fondness for Richard the Lionheart, he of the crusades whose slate is not exactly clean. As far as I know I have never exhibited any lion-hearted qualities, so a case can be made for my being inaptly named. I would rather not conjure up any replacements. I’ve lived with Richard long enough to have gotten over any of its not-so-reputable associations. I have been pretty adept at cutting my own swath through life in as un-lionlike a fashion as one might imagine. I could never go on a crusade, because when in a crowd of more than three or four people I go dumb and fade off into some ineffable internal universe. Pretty comfy there, by the way.
Years ago, when birding in Costa Rica, I remember the excitement of seeing my first Wilson’s warbler. I knew what it looked like, its habitat and feeding preferences, and with the help of an experienced guide was able to see one for several minutes up close. Fact is, the Wilson part of its name never got in the way of my joy at finally seeing this beautiful little bird. Lucky little devil, it had no idea of its connection to several Wilsons who of late have found themselves out of favor. That is the curious thing about names. The things we name have no idea what we call them, could care less, and exist quite nicely in total ignorance of whatever we have chosen to call them. No matter what new names might be foisted upon the more than 100 victims of this recent restructuring of history, they will be oblivious to this latest in a long line of questionable shenanigans.
All species have a system of communication. Be fun, for instance, to know what forms of address amongst themselves chickadee buddies use. I have watched chickadees over the years sit very still on a branch for long periods of time, as if deep in meditation. They appear to be much better at it than I have ever been.
Just for the fun of it, I looked through the warbler section of my trusty Peterson’s guide to see how many warblers there are whose identification is tied to a person. Quite a list: Bachman, Lawrence, Brewster, Townsend, Sutton, Swainson and Wilson. Apparently, “a diverse group” will take on the renaming task. I would not want to walk in any of those shoes. As any reader can easily tell, I see the whole enterprise as rather silly and at one with recent efforts to turn back time and history. I understand the offensiveness of certain statues, especially in the South. But birds! I agree with Jerry Coyne, an avid birder and evolutionary biologist, that “Performative acts like this are really deeply injurious to science… We cannot go back through the history of science and wipe out everybody who was not a perfect human being.” He also suggests we devote more time and energy to teaching disadvantaged kids about birds. Seems to me being imperfect is akin to being very human. At any rate, I wish them good luck. I can’t image what it would be like to be perfect. Actually, the prospect sounds awful. I’ve got my fair share of imperfections and I’ll never give them up. As they say, they complete me. A curious characteristic of humans is that we seem more inclined to waste resources and energy on so many things that in the long run really do not matter. Sit in on one of many congressional hearings and get back to me on just how worthwhile any of them were. Precious few.
I plan on sticking to the names of my avian friends for the long haul. They have served me well and I am not about to cast them aside. Besides, I feel sad for Bachman, Wilson, and Townsend, et. al. who are not around to fight back. Not a fair playing field. One last gripe. I grew up watching the Tappan Zee bridge being put together piece by piece from my dorm room window in Tarrytown. For me it will always be the Tappan Zee Bridge. Sorry Gov., but Tappan it is and always will be.
Dick deRosa’s Hawthorn Hill essays have appeared in “The Freeman’s Journal” since 1998. A collection, “Hawthorn Hill Journal: Selected Essays,” was published in 2012. He is a retired English teacher.