Photo by Jess Cole
The Hurricane Lily, or Lycoris radiata
The Hurricane Lily, or Lycoris radiata
In the world of garden making and plant growing, names are of utter importance. When it comes to the titling of plants there is always a “Latin/botanical” name, and there is a common name.
The botanical name associated with a plant is its “scientific” name, the name officially used within the industry and academia. These names are part of the seven level “binomial nomenclature” system that Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus created in the mid 1700s to neatly and clearly categorize the organisms of our natural world. His system begins with the broadest classes of our flora and fauna kingdoms and then narrows, very specifically, to distinct species.
The objective of using a plant's Latin name is to avoid confusion. Linnaeus created a system that was to be a universal language within the plant world. If used correctly, I can go to England— a land vastly different than Southern Louisiana—and mention a perennial plant to a fellow gardener via its Latin name and we both know what that plant is. This is despite the two cultures likely having totally different “common names” for this plant. The Latin name, theoretically, is always the same. Once upon a time, I despised the existence and usage of our Latin plant name system. It seemed confusing, a literal foreign language, and like a heartless/sterile way to describe plants. Plant ID classes, during my time at LSU, were grueling for me. But over time, this slowly began to change. As I became ever-more immersed in the plant world, and encountered these Latin names more often, I began to see similarities, overlaps. After all, it's just another language for translating and memorizing.
Once upon a time, I despised the existence and usage of our Latin plant name system. It seemed confusing, a literal foreign language, and like a heartless/sterile way to describe plants. Plant ID classes, during my time at LSU, were grueling for me. But over time, this slowly began to change.
A Latin plant name starts with the genus (family name) followed by the species name. I was once advised to think of it like a phone book: family name first, then specific name. Within this set up you can (1) memorize family names to at least identify the family of a plant and (2) look into the specific name to find a more detailed description of that plant. Specific names often explain something quite characteristic about a plant—for example the color of its flower, shape of its leaf, the plant's growing habits, the area in which it is found.
A quick lesson: Take the Latin name for “White Oak”, Quercus alba for example. Quercus is the family name for oaks. When you see “Quercus” you know we are talking about oak trees. Alba is Latin for “white”.
This is not always the case, unfortunately. Sometimes, the specific name references the botanist (often an old European man of botanical past) who “discovered”/botanized the plant. For example, one of my favorite perennials common to Louisiana and Texas is called Oenothera lindheimeri. Lindheimeri references the German botanist Ferdinand Lindheimer who came to the American Southeast in the early 1900s, botanizing his way around the American frontier. This approach to scientific naming, I personally believe, is a fault to the system.
[Read this: 5 Reasons to Plant a Tree]
As for common names: There can be many, if not a dozen, associated with one plant. Furthermore, depending where you are geographically on this earth, the common names will likely completely change.
Botanical names of plants are important, but I cherish common names. Common names offer the plant you’re engaging with a sense of place, community and seasonality. They often make a plant relatable, tying into our common societal doings and community ponderings.
As a lovely example, take the non-native but magical perennial bulb, Lycoris radiata, brought over from Japan to Louisiana. I was raised to call this flower, that comes faithfully in our still very hot and humid late summer weeks, "Hurricane Lily." Though we are deep into hurricane season already in southern Louisiana, this flower comes at the height of our storm season. My good friend Jlayun, though, calls this flower "first sign of fall" where she is from in China; to her and her family, this flower says that fall has officially arrived.
Another good friend from Mexico often teaches me, through common plant names, about plants her family and friends use in their meals. One of my favorites hails from the mallow family (which includes hibiscus, cotton, and okra): Malvaviscus arboreus. This perennial is commonly, in Louisiana, called “Turks Cap”. My friend calls it “Little Apple” and showed me how the little red apple-like fruit after bloom also tastes a bit like apples when eaten fresh or cooked.
Names can be complex, names can be entire sagas...Plant names have the power to connect communities and share interesting bits of history.
Most plants carry with them sometimes dozens of common names, all of which tell their natural history as they relate to humans. Common names are the language of the everyday: easy, sweet, and accessible to all.
Names can be complex, names can be entire sagas. Names can be simple and straightforward; sometimes they can mean literally nothing. They can reference random people or can speak multitudes in description. Plant names have the power to connect communities and share interesting bits of history. Next time you encounter a plant name (common or botanical), delve deeper and find that the plant itself can illuminate much beyond its physical form, even through the study of words.
