Bird Names
A subject of considerable controversy has erupted anew: how
should we choose names for bird species? Here’s my take on it.
The controversy centers on names derived from historical
figures (Audubon’s Shearwater, Swainson’s Warbler, McCown’s Longspur,
Williamson’s Sapsucker). These have been referred to as both patronyms
and eponyms. The original logic behind this is that ornithologists
wanted to honor serious and accomplished figures in the history of ornithology.
A secondary goal was to name a new species after the person who discovered it.
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| Audubon's Shearwater, in the waters off Delaware and New Jersey. Why not Long-tailed Shearwater? |
The AOS, one of the major organizations in ornithological
research, just made a breathtaking decision: eliminate all eponymous names in
North America. Replace them with something better. What’s going on here?
There are multiple views. As you might guess, mine is
different from the prevailing one. The motivation for renaming that is getting
the most newsprint is a realization that some of these historical figures were
not so honorable after all: for example, McCown was a Confederate general.
(That name was changed a few years ago.) True enough. But the approach I like
to take is that we should adopt names that are descriptive, not
honorific.
Many long-time ornithologists are upset about the change.
They have long subscribed to the notion that “established names should prevail,” and that changes should be instituted only very slowly to avoid
chaos. There is something to be said for that. But not much.
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| Swainson's Thrush. Rock Creek Park, Washington DC. How about Spectacled Thrush? |
Open up the hood on your car. There is an air filter, an oil
filter, a radiator. The transmission, engine block, pistons. All of these words
have meaning, have value to those trying to diagnose a problem and fix it. They
are useful. They facilitate dialogue. They are aids in understanding the
operation of the vehicle.
Why shouldn’t it be the same in ornithology? We should be
using bird names that say something about the species: what it looks like,
where it occurs, what it sounds like, what it forages for, what habitat is best
for it. These are the elements of information to conserve these species and to
educate the larger public about them and their needs. In this distressing era
of declining birds, we should be using every tool available to inform
governments and legislators to help save them and to convince voters that money
needs to be spent. Cassin’s Sparrow, Brewer’s Blackbird, Bewick’s Wren – not
terribly helpful, are they?
Nomenclature is difficult in every branch of science. As
time goes on, researchers find themselves running out of names for new things.
That’s when the eponyms start to multiply. It’s also when goofy and ambiguous
names start to appear, not to mention inappropriate, erroneous, and misleading
names. I never liked “ultrafast laser” in physics – what’s wrong with
“femtosecond laser”? “Deep neural network” is another: a hot topic in
computational science that is badly in need of a better name. (Deep compared to
what? Neural it is not. A set of layers is really not a network.*) So, to be
accurate about it, “Audubon’s Oriole” is not a unique case – it exemplifies poor
nomenclatural practice that has afflicted all sciences, for centuries.
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| Swainson's Hawk. This juvenile was in Santa Fe County, New Mexico. Brown-chested Hawk, perhaps? |
But we should also be honest. This problem is really a lack of imagination. It is laziness. If we need new words for taxonomic groups, then dammit let’s create them. If indigenous people have been using a name for centuries already, why can’t we adopt that, even if it needs a bit of anglicization? Scientists need to adopt the same seriousness in nomenclature as we do in the laboratory research. Some bird names make no sense at all (Palm Warbler, Ring-necked Duck, Mountain Bluebird); others use geographical names with little or no connection to the bird (Connecticut Warbler, Philadelphia Vireo, Nashville Warbler); others misuse an adjective. (Common Black Hawk. Oh yeah?)
In the first week of May in northern New Mexico, each year
that I worked there, it was thrilling and inspiring to hear a familiar sound in
the stately Ponderosa Pine forests. It was a “rising and accelerating series of
chee notes, perhaps too slow to be considered a trill, lasting about 2
seconds.” (J. Dunn, K. Garrett, A Field Guide to Warblers of North America,
1997, p. 336.) I would immediately look up in the higher branches of the
nearest Ponderosa for a golden ornament, my first Grace’s Warbler of the year –
and immediately feel better that the world was not in abject decline, that
migration was successful, that spring was here again. A mystical feeling.
But I would be even more grateful to call it something else.
“Grace’s Warbler” is among the worst names in all of ornithology. Grace was the
sister of Elliott Coues, who was an important 1800’s ornithological figure. Mr.
Coues had obtained the first specimen of the bird. Accomplished as he was, Mr.
Coues (and Spencer Fullerton Baird, who named it a year later) apparently
didn’t have much imagination. This warbler is beautiful, energetic, and sings
very distinctively. Why couldn’t one of those character traits serve as a basis
for a name? Even more neglectful is that the bird has a unique characteristic:
it is found exclusively in Ponderosa Pine. It seems to be absolutely chained to
Ponderosa Pine, to the point that one can never find it in any other species of
tree. (The only exception I had was when a Northern Pygmy Owl [good name, by
the way] was perched in daylight, causing the warbler to scold, whereupon it
moved out of a Ponderosa to get closer to the invader. And it moved to another
pine, a Pinyon!)
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| Townsend's Warbler, Galisteo, New Mexico. How about Black-masked Warbler? |
Sadly, “Grace’s” is not alone. Close by in the southwest forests are Virginia’s Warbler and Lucy’s Warbler, which got their names through similar unwise means. Anna’s Hummingbird is another. Bad nomenclature was spreading in the 1800s like forest fire in … well, in Ponderosa Pine forests. I think a renaming is due. How about “Ponderosa Warbler”? “Pine Warbler” would work, but is already taken – an example of nomenclatural challenge. Similarly, I would like to rename “Virginia’s Warbler” to “Oak Warbler,” and “Lucy’s Warbler” to “Mesquite Warbler.” Alternatively, we could name the lovely Grace’s after its appearance or song. Heck, I’d even take “Graceful Warbler” as a minimally-confusing change.
I don’t mean to minimize the predominant impulse of 2023, to
remove “exclusionary and harmful” names from bird lexicon. It is undeniably a
good thing. Mr. McCown surrendered the right to be remembered in perpetuity
when he took up arms with the Confederate Army scoundrels. Reverend Bachman, of
sparrow and warbler fame, wrote maliciously of the African intellect as
“greatly inferior to that of the Caucasian.” He upped the ante with “our
defense of slavery is contained within the Holy Scriptures.” (Hmm… as good a
reason as any to reassess the Holy Scriptures.) Leave them in the history
books, but don’t force birders in the field to keep referencing archaic notions
that prevent us from putting past inhumanity resolutely to bed.
A more complex case is John James Audubon, who was
unquestionably at the forefront of 1800s North American ornithological study,
and whose paintings still today stand as some of the finest depictions of
wildlife. He spent most of his life on the brink of poverty, but owned slaves
for a short period late in life. He wrote dismissively of abolitionism. Many
people argue that his name should be stripped – from species, from parks, from
organizations.
Audubon is in company with many other American figures,
namely George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and three-quarters of the signers
of the Declaration of Independence. While many eloquent writers try to find
some reconciliation in this, I will express my own view that, rather than
erasing these names from the stories of our national origin, we should instead
take care to describe them simultaneously as important leaders and
racist slave holders. Do not bury “slave holder” in the fine print in the back
of the book: announce it right there along with “founding father.” That is how
we will avoid forgetting the truth.
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| Cassin's Finch, New Mexico. How about Montane Finch? |
Yes, we should remove offensive names from the lexicon. But
the bigger picture is that we should use descriptive language at every possible
opportunity, because it is sensible and useful. I believe that argument will
win the day, even with the cranky retired ornithologists.
The birds bearing Audubon’s name are no different from the
rest. “Green-backed Oriole” and “Long-tailed Shearwater” would work just fine.
End of controversy. If the warbler is split off as its own species, how about
“Mountain Warbler”?
Many of the old-timers in ornithology are shaking their heads at this moment, and some are incensed. We are proposing chaos in the place of traditions, in their view. But wait: that is overlooking something. Ornithology already has a centuries-long tradition of using descriptive names. Let’s return to that cherished tradition. In addition, are we modern scientists incapable of fixing the mistakes of the past (Palm Warbler)? I think not.
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| Lincoln's Sparrow, Santa Fe Canyon Preserve, New Mexico. An early migrant in February. "Lineated Sparrow" might work. |
Here are some of my favorite names in North America. Why not
use this list as a template for new names?
Rhinoceros Auklet, Rose-throated Becard, Least Bittern,
Red-winged Blackbird, Yellow-headed Blackbird, Boblink, the various chickadees,
the buntings (Indigo, Painted, Varied, Snow), Canvasback, Gray Catbird, Plain
Chachalaca, Chuck-will’s-widow, Pelagic Cormorant,** Bronzed Cowbird,
White-winged Crossbill, Yellow-billed Cuckoo, Long-billed Curlew, Dickcissel,
American Dipper, Mourning Dove, Ruddy Ground Dove, Long-billed Dowitcher,
Harlequin Duck, Ruddy Duck, Golden Eagle, Bald Eagle, Prairie Falcon, Northern
Flicker, Alder Flycatcher, Ash-throated Flycatcher, Scissor-tailed Flycatcher,
Vermilion Flycatcher, Willow Flycatcher, Spruce Grouse, Laughing Gull,
Ferruginous Hawk, Zone-tailed Hawk, Lucifer Hummingbird, Parasitic Jaeger,
Pinyon Jay, Belted Kingfisher, Swallow-tailed Kite, Chestnut-collared Longspur,
Red-throated Loon, Buff-collared Nightjar, Flammulated Owl, Long-eared Owl,
Snowy Plover, Stilt Sandpiper, Grasshopper Sparrow, Saltmarsh Sparrow, Swamp
Sparrow.
South America has Pheasant Cuckoo, Savanna Hawk,
Ladder-tailed Nightjar, Pale-rumped Swift, White-fronted Nunbird, Amazonian
Trogon, and Monkey-eating Eagle. And of course the hummingbirds: Glittering-bellied
Emerald, Blue-tufted Starthroat, Fork-tailed Woodnymph, White-vented Violetear.
In Africa: Gorgeous Bushshrike (you won't understand until you see it), Spotted Thick-knee,
White-fronted Bee-eater, Malachite Sunbird.
Let’s dispense with the old rationalizations and move on
with language that works. Words matter, and clear language is needed for effective conservation.
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Note: be sure to check out Bird Names for Birds, a website with lots of good biographical information about named figures in ornithology.
* By the way, the term "Artificial Intelligence" is disgracefully poor. It is misleading, grandiose, arrogant, and erroneous. I despise it more than any term in science. I don't care how often it is being used in the popular press. The early computer science researcher who coined it made a very regrettable mistake. "Machine classification" might be a suitable substitute.