It’s a perennial controversy among friends who are docents in a local garden: what is the proper common name for Prunus mume? Is it Japanese apricot, or Japanese plum? Our interpretive materials go back and forth between the two over the years.
With common names, there are no definitive answers. Genetically, Prunus mume is closer to apricots, as this article in Curtis’s Botanical Magazine (v.39, no. 3, September 2022) indicates: “P. mume is classified within subgenus Amygdalus alongside almonds and peaches and sits within section Armeniaca, being most closely related to P. armeniaca and P. sibirica (Yazbek & Oh, 2013).” (Those species of Prunus are both types of apricot.)
However, cultural context is also important. Although the plant originated in China, it was introduced in Japan in the sixth century C.E. Since the garden is focused on plants that are traditional to Japan, you should probably include both plum and apricot in your interpretive materials, as this Seattle Japanese Garden blog post does. Japanese new year decoration includes sho-chiku-bai, a trio of plants which are pine-bamboo-plum or apricot, depending on the English translation. (In China, this same trio of plants is referred to as the Three Friends of Winter because of their resilience during this season.) Which common name you give primacy will be a judgment call. In their book, Garden Plants of Japan, Ran Levy-Yamamori and Gerard Taaffe refer to the English name as follows: “Japanese apricot (sometimes confusingly referred to as Japanese plum).”
William Jackson Hooker Hand-colored engraving from Samuel Curtis (1799-1860) Curtis’s botanical magazine, or, Flower-garden displayed London: Printed by Stephen Couchman for W. Curtis, 1836.
I have heard that we should no longer use the name poinsettia for the plant that is popular during the Christmas season, and instead use its Indigenous name. What’s the story behind the plant’s common name?
The plant’s Nahuatl name is Cuetlaxóchitl, meaning ‘a flower that withers.’ This blog post from the Library of Congress discusses the role of Joel Roberts Poinsett in popularizing the plant in the U.S. He was an enthusiastic plant collector, and acting Prime Plenipotentiary Minister of the U.S. to Mexico between 1825 and 1830. He brought the plant back to his home state of South Carolina after noticing it being used decoratively and ceremonially at Christmas time by Franciscan friars in Taxco, Guerrero. The plant’s well-known common name honors him. Poinsett is now considered a problematic figure because he was a slave owner and advocate of the system of slavery. Paradoxically, he also supported the South Carolina Unionists.
Before Poinsett, there was the 16th century Spanish conquest of the Aztec empire (which was itself built on the labor of landless serfs and slaves). The Spanish left a legacy of Franciscan missionaries who were intent on Christianizing the native populations. The missionaries called this plant by various Spanish names, including la flor de Nochebuena (Holy Night flower). Before the era of Conquest, the plant had (and still has) ceremonial uses (offerings to the gods) and medicinal and practical uses (to treat skin ailments and fevers, and in dye for textiles, and cosmetics). It was also planted in the gardens of Aztec rulers, according to this article by Laura Trejo in Chronica Horticulturae 60/04 – December 2020, pp.28-31.
The scientific name for poinsettia (Cuetlaxóchitl) is Euphorbia pulcherrima (a species name meaning ‘very beautiful’). The genus name was recorded in 1753 by Carl Linnaeus but he is not the original giver of this name that honors Euphorbus, Greek physician to King Juba II of Mauritania. Its origins go back to Juba himself. Pliny the Elder, in his 1st century B.C.E. book Natural History, says, “With reference to euphorbia, there is a treatise still in existence, written upon it by King Juba, in which he highly extols its [Euphorbia’s] merits. […] The properties of this plant are so remarkably powerful, that the persons engaged in collecting the juices of it are obliged to stand at a considerable distance.”
Linnaeus is now considered problematic for his classification of humans into varieties based on color, physical traits, garb, behavior, and type of government. According to the Linnean Society of London, Linnaeus’s ideas have been used to fuel modern scientific racism, that is, using science to justify racism: “Scientific racism can have devastating and far-reaching consequences for humanity, including seeing non-Europeans as less human than Europeans, and justifying the use of slavery and genocide.” Despite this, his plant classification has enduring value.
It can be difficult to disentangle plant names (both common and scientific) from the fraught histories of the people who named them. Some names are intrinsically offensive, and others honor those whose behavior was at times dishonorable. If you want to avoid using the name poinsettia, you could substitute the scientific name (recognizable by some) or the Indigenous name, both of which have deep historical roots. The Nahuatl name will be unfamiliar to most outside of Mexico, but with consistent use, it might become as familiar as tomato or avocado, both plant names adapted from Nahuatl.
There are several different explanations, not all equally credible. A Dictionary of English Plant-Names by James Britten and Robert Holland (Kartuz Reprint Ltd., 1965) cites the theory of 17th century naturalist William Coles that the name came about “because toads will sometimes shelter themselves amongst the branches of it.” The authors themselves seem doubtful, since they remark on this theory with an exclamation point!
Geoffrey Grigson, in his book A Dictionary of English Plant Names (Allen Lane, 1974) cites naturalist William Turner’s 1548 The Names of Herbes, which says toadflax a translation from the German Krottenflachs, “i.e., a wild, useless flax, a flax for toads.” This too seems a bit of a stretch. What do toads and uselessness have in common?
Elsevier’s Dictionary of Plant Lore, by Donald C. Watts (2007), cites a number of theories. John Gerard, writing in the 16th century, described Linaria as “a kind of Antyrrhinum [Antirrhinum, the snapdragon],” [having small, slender, blackish stalks ]”from which do grow many long narrow leaves like flax. The flowers be yellow with a spurre hanging at the same like unto a Larkesspurre, having a mouth like unto a frog’s mouth, even such as it is to be seene in the common Snapdragon.” Watts doesn’t fully embrace this because it would then rightly be called toad’s mouth. Another thought is that “toad” sounds like the German word tot, for dead. A dead flax could be one that is unusable as a source of fiber, but Linaria also has a reputation as a noxious weed in flax fields.
Washington’s Governor recently signed a bill replacing the word marijuana with cannabis in the text of all state laws because some say the word has racist undertones. But isn’t cannabis from Linnaeus’s system of plant-naming, and isn’t that system implicitly racist, too?
How people feel about use of a particular word is something that evolves over time, and has a complex cultural context. The current sense that marijuana is a racist term is linked to the demonizing of Mexican immigrants and others outside the dominant culture and blaming them for ‘reefer madness,’ but the word on its own is not intrinsically racist. It was used in Mexico as early as 1840 for the plant called Cannabis, and its linguistic origins are uncertain: homophone for Maria Juana (uncertain origin: derived from Spanish mariguan, a non-native plant associated with other psychoactive plants known in Mexico), but potentially connected to a word for hemp used by Chinese laborers in Mexico, itself perhaps borrowed from Semitic and Indo-European words for marjoram—note the Spanish word mejorana, and the Mexican slang term for cannabis, mejorana Chino. West Africans, forcibly taken by the Portuguese slave trade to Brazil, used a term ma-kaña that is similar to the Portuguese term maconha. Theories abound. Though some feel the term should be dropped, others believe that to do so suppresses a history that is worth remembering.
Isaac Campos, professor of Latin American history at University of Cincinnati, and author of the book Home Grown: Marijuana and the Origins of Mexico’s War on Drugs (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2012), challenges the idea that the word marijuana is racist. “Marijuana is just the Mexican word for drug cannabis.” The dubious associations of marijuana with insanity and criminal behavior did not originate in the United States, but first appeared in the Mexican press. Marijuana was made illegal in Mexico nearly two decades before the negative associations of the plant and its use reached the U.S. In his opinion, “the more complete story of the word marijuana is a story about the influence of Mexican culture. He believes banning the word would erase that history.” Undeniably, race and class have played a role in the enforcement of drug policies. This article from NPR’s Code Switch explores the subject.
You are right that the scientific name Cannabis is Latin. Linnaeus included it in Species Plantarum (1753). He did not restrict his classification schemes to plants, and it is true that he had theories about ‘varieties’ of human beings that we now recognize as wrong and harmful. Even the Latin name has a complex history:
The Latin name comes from Greek kannabis, which is derived from the Sanskrit root canna, meaning cane. There is a connection to Semitic languages as well (Arabic kunnab, Syriac kunnappa, Aramaic kene busma, etc.) In the book of Exodus 30:23, Moses receives instructions from god: “Next take choice spices: five hundred weight of solidified myrrh, half as much—two hundred and fifty—of fragrant cinnamon, two hundred and fifty of aromatic cane [kaneh bosem], five hundred—by the sanctuary weight—of cassia, and a hin of olive oil. Make of this a sacred anointing oil.” This might refer to hemp stalks, which were known and used in the Near East in biblical times, or it could refer to another aromatic cane-like plant.
Because societal attitudes change, it is important to be flexible when communicating with each other, and recognize that we do not all feel the same way about words. Delving into the history and etymology of plant names is one way of arriving at a nuanced understanding of why alternative terms might be preferable.
I came across a reference to a “groundsel-tree” in a novel, and I wonder what its connection is to the weedy groundsel. In the book, it is found growing near the beach at Coney Island in the 19th century.
The weedy groundsel is Senecio vulgaris (a Class C noxious weed in Washington State, with a more colorful common name, old-man-of-the-spring, presumably because of its fuzzy white seedheads), but ‘groundsel tree’ refers to a tree-like deciduous shrub, Baccharis halimifolia. It goes by other common names as well: sea-myrtle, saltbush, consumptionweed, silvering, coyotebush, and salt marsh-elder, to name just a few.
One obvious connection between the weed and the shrub is that they both belong to the daisy family (Compositae/Asteraceae). There is similarity in the shape of the flowers; according to Missouri Botanical Garden, the shrub’s common name “refers to the similar appearance of the tufts of pappus on mature seedheads of this species and those of common groundsel (Senecio vulgaris).” (To me, Baccharis seedheads resemble the brushes on old-fashioned typewriter erasers!) Both plants have toxic properties. The weed is harmful if consumed by cattle or horses, and humans—though less likely to ingest it—can also suffer liver damage or death from eating it. The woody plant has toxic leaves and seeds. Both the weed and the shrub have the ability to spread aggressively, and according to this blog post from Buffalo Bayou Partnership, that trait is embedded in the common name groundsel, “from the Anglo-Saxon groundeswelge, meaning “ground swallower.”
It makes sense that the plant would grow in a place like Coney Island (even in a fictional setting), because it is a salt-tolerant shrub. Baccharis halimifolia is native to the Atlantic and Gulf coastal areas of the eastern and southern U.S.
Why is the flower ‘standing cypress’ called that? It’s obviously not a cypress (as in the tree). I am just curious about this great plant that brings all the hummingbirds and butterflies into my garden.
Ipomopsis rubra goes by several other common names (Texas plume, red gilia, red Texas star, Spanish larkspur, and more). The common name you are wondering about may be derived from an impression of the feathery leaves echoing the foliage of true cypress (Cupressus) trees, though they more closely resemble Taxodium (bald or swamp cypress). ‘Standing’ is also puzzling, since these biennial flowers stand much less tall than a cypress tree. Maybe it is because when grown from seed, Ipomopsis forms a basal rosette the first year, and it doesn’t ‘stand up’ and grow a tall spike until its second year.
I just discovered a flower growing in my garden this fall. It looks very much like a large pink crocus. Someone told me it is called naked ladies. Is it actually a crocus? Is it poisonous?
Here is the tricky thing about common names: they often refer to more than one plant. Based on your description of a low-growing flower like a crocus, it sounds like Colchicum autumnale is growing in your garden. If it had long bare stems and lily-like flowers, you would be looking at naked ladies of another sort, that is, Amaryllis belladonna, or possibly a species of Lycoris (both of which are in the Amaryllis family). What they all share is the characteristic of flowering once the foliage has died back (hence the nakedness of a flower without leaves).
Colchicum is in the family Colchicaceae. It has a history of being misidentified as Crocus sativus, the source of saffron, which also flowers in fall. Crocuses belong to a different family, the Iridaceae. Mistaking Colchicum (also called meadow saffron, which adds to the confusion) with Crocus sativus (whose dried orange stigmas have culinary and medicinal uses) can have dire consequences. When the 17th century herbalist Nicholas Culpeper cautioned that “some have fallen into an immoderate convulsive laughter which ended in death” from consuming saffron, it is likely that people had ingested Colchicum stigmas, not saffron from crocuses. Colchicine (which is sometimes used as a gout medication) is highly toxic when ingested. Amaryllis belladonna and Lycoris are also toxic, especially to cats and dogs, but humans should not ingest any part of these plants, either.
Naked ladies were once naked boys, the prevailing common name before Victorian morality intervened and thought it too suggestive. Why ‘naked ladies’ is any less so is a mystery. It is not known who coined the name ‘naked boys,’ but an early flora of Nottingham by George Charles Deering (an 18th century German-born botanist and physician) documents their presence in the autumn garden. The name is thought to go back as far as the 16th century.
What can you tell me about Paterson’s curse? It’s a weedy plant with blue flowers mentioned in an Australian novel about an Aboriginal community and their ongoing struggle with the effects of colonization.
Paterson’s curse is a common name for Echium plantagineum, also known as Salvation Jane, purple viper’s bugloss, Lady Campbell weed, blueweed, and Riverina bluebell. It is invasive in Australia, where it has overtaken pasture land. It is toxic to horses and other grazing livestock. (There is a similar plant, Echium vulgare, which is invasive in Washington State.)
The source of the name is said to come from the Patterson family (the plant dropped the second T through common usage over time) who introduced it to their garden in Cumberoona, New South Wales around 1880. However, according to Australian author Roger Spencer, the plant’s presence was first recorded in Australia in 1843, in the garden of John Macarthur, near Sydney. It began appearing in nursery catalogues by 1845, and by 1890 it was entrenched in New South Wales and South Australia.
There are two theories about the name Salvation Jane. In times of drought, when native pasture plants died back, Echium plantagineum was seen as a ‘salvation’ because it grew when nothing else would. The hooded shape of the flowers call to mind the bonnets of 19th century Salvation Army missionaries.
Can you identify a plant growing at my mother’s house in Georgia? We would like to know more about it.
This is Smilax bona-nox. It goes by many evocative names, and even the scientific name had me wondering. Why is the species name “good-night?” It was named by Linnaeus and in his time bona-nox would have served as a euphemistic Latin curse (the way someone might say dadgummit, goldarnit, or flipping heck), possibly uttered after getting ensnared in this viny plant’s thorns. According to Delena Tull, author of Edible and Useful Plants of Texas and the Southwest (1999 ed.), encounters with the curved prickles give rise to common names like catbrier (or catbriar) and blaspheme-vine. Other common names include saw greenbrier (or saw briar) and tramp’s trouble. It is also called zarzaparilla (Anglicized to sarsaparilla from the Spanish name which means bramble + little grape vine).
According to the Virginia Native Plant Society, the fruit of Smilax species is valued by birds, bears, foxes, possums, and squirrels. The flowers are nectar and pollen sources for bees and flies, and the leaves host the larvae of caterpillar moths. The Native American Ethnobotany Database lists medicinal uses of this species of Smilax by the Seminole, Choctaw, Houma, and Creek tribes. The Choctaw and Houma ground the dried tuberous roots into flour for use in bread and cakes. The Comanche used the leaves as cigarette rolling papers.
About the common name sarsaparilla, you may be familiar with this word as flavoring sometimes used in the beverage known as root beer. A traditional tonic made with the rhizomes was thought to ward off rheumatism. Both Smilax and Sassafras have been used in flavoring root beer, but Sassafras root bark contains safrole, a carcinogenic substance, and the Food and Drug Administration banned its use in food in 1960. There is now a safrole-free extract that is allowed in food.
Last year I purchased a plant at a plant sale. The tag said simply ‘celandine.’ It is flowering now, and its flowers are like yellow poppies. The leaves are attractive and very distinctive—deeply cut margins, kind of like oak leaves. But when I think of celandine, I think of the Cicely Barker flower fairies books from childhood. I am not sure this is the same plant.
You are not alone in experiencing ‘celandine confusion,’ discussed in this article from The Scott Arboretum of Swarthmore College. The confusion rests on the use of that common name to describe a plant that is a Washington State-listed Class B noxious weed in the buttercup family, and two different plants in the poppy family.
If you remember the illustration for “The Song of the Celandine Fairy” depicting ‘the lesser celandine,’ the illustration shows Ficaria verna (also called Ranunculus ficaria). There is also a ‘greater celandine’ fairy in Barker’s books, and that image looks more like Chelidonium majus which is in the poppy family and is a native of Europe. It is a bit harder to tell the difference between Chelidonium and Stylophorum diphyllum. Your plant is most likely one of these. Other common names for Stylophorum are ‘celandine poppy,’ and ‘wood poppy.’ Stylophorum is native to moist woodlands of eastern North America. Here’s what will help you tell one from the other:
According to Andrew Bunting, curator of the Scott Arboretum, “Stylophorum has broader leaves and Chelidonium leaves are more dissected. Also, the flowers are smaller on Chelidonium.” These images from Kathy Purdy’s Cold Climate Gardening blog neatly illustrates the differences in flower and leaf size. Further, when they reach the phase of producing seed pods, the difference is striking.
For additional information about Stylophorum, including suggestions of plant combinations for gardens, see this link from University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Master Gardener Program, and this one from Bruce Crawford, director of Rutgers Gardens, on the plant that launched his career in horticulture.
