If you’ve been paying attention to the birding world (doesn’t everyone?), you’ve heard the latest controversy gripping birders across the country. It’s not whether Hoary and Common Redpolls should be lumped, or whether the Harlan’s Red-tailed Hawk is a full species. No, dear readers, the issue at hand is more basic and widespread, and affects our fundamental relationship to the birds we love: how should we name them?
Let me explain. Most birds’ monikers have something to do with the bird itself—a physical feature, distinctive behavior, or geographic location (or some combination of them—Eastern Bluebird, for example). However, many birds are named after people—perhaps the person who first described it, someone significant in their life, or a prominent historical figure (Scottish-American ornithologist Alexander Wilson has several birds named in his honor). This may not seem like a big deal—after all, eponymous names are common, placed on everything from plants and animals to buildings and even entire cities. With respect to birds, though, they present two problems. First, an eponymous name tells you nothing about the bird to which it’s applied, which is a particular challenge to new or less-experienced birders. Ask a new birder what the defining feature of a Ring-billed Gull or Yellow Warbler might be, and she’d be able to tell you without much effort. On the other hand, pose the same question about a Wilson’s Warbler or Harris’ Hawk, and she’d have no idea; those names provide no useful information about them.
But there’s a deeper—and far more significant—point. Many of the people for whom birds are named have complicated, distressing, and, quite frankly, violent and cruel histories. As author, artist, and birder extraordinaire David Sibley noted recently:
“… Winfield Scott was a US Army officer in the 1800s. Scott’s Oriole was named for him by a junior officer, but there is no evidence that Scott himself ever had an interest in birds. He was very highly regarded as a General, but, among other things, he presided over the forced removal of the Cherokee (the Trail of Tears). Many people today could say that Scott’s Oriole is named for a person who carried out the brutal persecution of their ancestors.”
That’s a particularly gruesome chapter in this country’s history—though it’s hardly an isolated one—and while we should never forget these events (lest we repeat them), we most definitely shouldn’t glorify those who carried them out, nor throw them in the faces of those birders whose ancestors experienced the horrors of slavery, violence, and oppression engendered by so many of the birds’ namesakes. Birding can already be exclusionary enough; if we truly want to encourage more and increasingly diverse groups to join in our passionate pursuit of birds, removing the names of their oppressors—though it can’t redress past wrongs—is a necessary step.
There’s a third case for renaming the birds, and it cuts to the heart of our relationship with the world around us. Birds are wild creatures with their own lives, their own spirits, and they shouldn’t be defined, through an eponym, by their association to us. A prominent human name is inseparable from the entirety of the person connected to it—all their statements, beliefs, and actions. Scott’s Oriole, Audubon’s Shearwater, Bachman’s Sparrow, and many others carry the weight of humanity’s most brutal and violent acts—slavery, forced relocation, persecution, mass murder. That’s far too heavy a burden for a feathered back to bear. We need to decouple these sublime and delicate creatures from the names and deeds placed upon them.
Most importantly, birding should be a welcoming, safe space for all who choose to pursue it. Everyone should be able to find joy and wonder in the beauty of Nature’s creations without reservation, and free from the bleak and painful connections to the grim days of our history. And the birds themselves must be released from the weight of our past inhumanities and those who brought them about, to soar unhindered into azure skies carrying names that honor their lives, respect their dignity, and preserve their wild grace.
To learn about the effort to rename birds (and read the historical bios of the people behind the names), check out Bird Names For Birds.
News of the hawk’s arrival in Portland spreads beyond Maine’s borders like wildfire, drawing people from across the country—Massachusetts, New York, Maryland, Ohio, Pennsylvania, California. It spends the next several weeks in the park, feasting on a near-endless supply of squirrels, rats, and pigeons, and tussling with the resident Red-tails. Thousands of birders come to this unlikely spot to bear witness to an event the likes of which, in a lifetime of birding, may happen once.
I, like all who’d come to know this bird, was heartbroken. It all seemed so futile—all the effort, and for what? If it was just going to die anyway, what was the point? Why? The answer, of course, is simple: because. Because to do nothing, to let the bird suffer, cold and alone, would have been morally wrong. In its need for protection, for kindness, and for care, the hawk was no different from any of us. Though the outcome was ultimately the same, in its last days, the hawk knew peace, safety, and comfort. It was shown great compassion, and in its final moments it was attended by people whose hearts had grown to encompass this incredible, bird. On some level, I’m certain it understood that people cared for it. That it was loved.
The end of 2018 brought a rather unusual visitor to our corner of Western Massachusetts—a belated Christmas present for the local birders in the form of a beautiful male Canvasback. The duck first appeared with little fanfare on an oxbow lake off the Connecticut River in Northampton and set to feeding, unaware of the excitement he was about to generate.
Sometimes prayers are answered. This morning, Judy drove the finch back home. The bird she released in our yard was feisty, energetic, and possessed of all the vitality that this disease had drained from her—the fire of life burning deep and strong within her feathered breast. She flew to the top of the tallest tree, and was immediately joined by another of her kin. The two finches sat in each other’s company, perhaps enjoying their reunion, and then she took flight again, descending into the yard. She landed in a nearby Ash and, head tilted in our direction, regarded us—we two who had helped her back to life. I looked into her eye, and the full force of connection hit me—a freight train carried on gossamer wings. Weeks before, I had reached out my hand and delivered her into the hands of another who would save her. And here she was, healthy, beautiful, and free.
But there is something you can do: go birding. It sounds simple, I know, even ridiculous, but hear me out. This weekend, November 4-5, is the fourth annual Wader Conservation World Watch (WCWW), and it’s a chance to help. Started by the UK-based conservation group Wader Quest, the WCWW is a two-day survey of the world’s shorebirds—citizen science on a global scale. Wader Quest’s mission is simple: Save the shorebirds. By educating people about the needs of shorebirds and the struggles they face, and raising funds to support conservation efforts across the globe, Wader Quest is helping to drive shorebird conservation worldwide. But they can’t do it alone.
A Symphony Of Feathers 