"No term is more difficult to define than 'species,' and on no point are zoologists more divided than as to what should be understood by this word." — H.A. Nicholson (1872)

Naming species has given naturalists a common vocabulary that allows us to communicate to each other about broader concepts such as conservation, biodiversity, or just the joy we can feel when experiencing nature. However naming species is not without controversy. 

An important acknowledgement is that when a naturalist-taxonomist-scientist “discovers” a new species and then names it, that species was not new to the indigenous people who occupied those lands for thousands if not tens of thousands of years. Those people in many cases continue to have intimate knowledge of the plants and animals living there, and they named them. These people developed a deep understanding of where to find these species and when and how the seasons might influence the ebb and flow of the species’ abundance. For an outsider to then come in and claim that they “discovered” a new species at best demonstrates an ignorance of that deep knowledge. In many cases it may have been a local native guide who alerted the naturalist to the “new” species to begin with, so rather than ignorance, it smacks as a disregard of that deep knowledge just to receive the accolades associated with the “discovery” of a new species.

On Charles Darwin’s voyage on the Beagle, he spent as much time off the ship exploring the land as he could – in part because he was perpetually seasick when on the ship. While the Beagle was mapping the coastline of Argentina, Darwin was exploring by horseback and camping far inland in the pampas with gauchos and local Indians. They often encountered a large ostrich-like bird called a Rhea. But his camping companions told him of another, smaller “ostrich” that also occurred there. Darwin was keen to see the smaller variety as no European was aware of a second species, but he never got a good look at one until one evening he suddenly realized that the gauchos had been cooking one for dinner. He pulled out what parts he could salvage from the cooking pot and sent them back to England where taxonomists christened it “Darwin’s Rhea," Rhea pennata. Yet another example of disregard for local knowledge and local names. Or was it?

For the indigenous people, naming and understanding species was essential for communicating whether a species had important value to the wellbeing of the tribe, and where and when it could be found. They too certainly communicated a sense of joy or curiosity when they saw a particular species. Their communication was focused within and between adjacent tribes. 

Back in Europe during the early 1700s, there was no established convention for naming species and there was no convention for defining what a species was. Swedish botanist, zoologist and taxonomist, Carl Linnaeus, set out to solve the species problem — what was a species, and where does one species end and another begin? Linnaeus adhered to the biblical teaching that each species was a unique divine creation, and so there must be clear lines that set boundaries between species. It was his self-anointed task to identify those boundaries, to come up with a naming system for the entire world to use, and then to name ALL species. Prior to Linnaeus, one common European plant’s name was listed as Arum summis labris degustantes mutos redden; after Linnaeus it was Arum maculatum, the Arum lily, also called Adam and Eve. Linnaeus’ system was simple if not elegant. Every species would be given a binomial name, the first half denoted the Genus, a grouping of closely aligned species, and the second half was unique to that species. The binomial then nested into ever broadening alignments: the Genus fit into the Family, the Family into the Order, the Order fit into the Class, and the Class fit into the Kingdom. Linnaeus then sent out his acolytes to encourage the rest of the world to adopt his system. It worked.

However, there were voices of dissent. Linnaeus’ main rival was the Frenchman Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon, generally referred to as Buffon. Buffon complained that Linnaeus’ system was too simple (it was), that there were not always sharp lines separating species, that nature was messier than Linnaeus’ system allowed (it often is).  Despite Buffon’s complaints, he never came up with a system to compete with Linnaeus, and Linnaeus and his system won the minds of scientists across the planet. 

For plants, Linnaeus used the numbers of sepals, petals, stamens, and pistil lobes to define alliances, unfortunately unaware that widely divergent groups could have similar pattens in their reproductive structures. The result was the lumping together of plant groups that are now known to be unrelated. For mammals he typically used teeth, patterns of incisors, canines, premolars, and molars to define alliances, and in doing so he showed the similarity between chimpanzees and humans, but also lumped in sloths all into the same family. Later, scientists added more structures, more complexity, and ultimately genetics to do a better job of defining familial or generic or specific affinities. Still there was the problem of some who saw any minute difference as reason to name a new species (splitters) and others who ignored all but the most pronounced differences (lumpers) with no set of rules to determine who is right. Buffon’s objections still ring true. 

Linnaeus and his Systema Naturae catalyzed a tidal wave of naturalists who combed the corners of the planet in search of “new” species. Their goal was to catalogue all species within Linnaeus’ system. They had no idea just how many species there are. We still only have guesses; new species, even as large as mammals, birds, and lizards are still found every year. The goal then and today is to build a body of knowledge that would document the patterns of biodiversity. Today the use of morphology to define species has taken a back seat to using genetic analyses. In so doing scientists have discovered cryptic species, species with near identical outward appearances, but with distinct genetic signatures and who never cross lines to breed with the “wrong” but lookalike species. Linnaeus would both be heartened that that his system still has relevance three centuries later, but likely dismayed that his system has so strongly supported the Darwinian theory of species changing over time, something Linnaeus could have never accepted in his day. With a better understanding of the worldwide patterns of biodiversity we have an ever-increasing appreciation for what we have and what we could easily lose with environmental degradation and climate change.

Linnaeus’ naming goals and those of indigenous people who named everything first are of both different scales and different outcomes. If reconciling these differences was desired and possible, perhaps it would be appropriate to use the indigenous name as the common name, leaving the binomial system otherwise intact. I know of at least one case, the chuckwalla, where the common name does originate with the Cahuilla name. The binomial was once, Sauromalus obesus, which translates to the portly flat lizard, an apt description. Unfortunately, twenty-five years ago a scientist effectively argued to change that to S. ater, but no one seems to remember what ater means. Hopefully someday soon they will change it back.

Nullius in verba

Go outside, tip your hat to a chuckwalla (and a cactus), and be safe.