Poor Pluto’s been relegated to the planetary sidelines by the addition of just one word. He’s still a planet of sorts, but now the distinction is clear – he’s a “dwarf planet.”
A lot of people seemed to feel that this new label was a pejorative Pluto doesn’t deserve. Behind the sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, hue and cry, there seemed to be an almost genuine sympathy for the marginalization Pluto experienced.
To some, downgrading Pluto to dwarf planet status smacked of elitism. Especially when the demotion was a decision handed down by one privileged group and resulted in the reduced stature of another.
Some people might think that Pluto is better off – now that he’s grouped with his own celestial kind. Instead of being the puny last-kid-chosen on the solar playground, he’s now a major player in his little corner of the cosmos.
Maybe such distinctions work for planets, but what about for the many peoples of Planet America?
In the United States, we’ve got plenty of ethnonymic qualifiers to distinguish groups, set us apart, make sure we all know our place; terms such as African American, Asian American, Mexican American, American Indian, among others.
But here’s the question: when we use qualifiers to identify certain Americans, are we empowering a people or marginalizing them?
Are we dwarfing ourselves, our progress as a country of countrymen, by our insistence on the nomenclature of race?
By eagerly adopting ethnonyms that precisely define what kinds of Americans we are and where we come from, is it possible we’re undermining the very acceptance of diversity we seek to establish?
Ethnonyms, some say, are powerful tools of self-identification. For many Americans whose ancestors were brought to U.S. soil against their will, the term African American is a way to acknowledge ancestral roots, celebrate a rich cultural heritage, and commemorate triumph over tragedy.
But surely we can’t assume that every dark-skinned individual is of African descent? Not all black people self-identify as African and not all are American.
Tiger Woods, for example, refuses to be categorized by race, famously saying “I’m just who I am, whoever you see in front of you.”
Without knowing someone’s background or how they specifically wish to be identified, isn’t it grossly impolitic to ascribe huge aspects of heritage and history onto someone simply because of the color of their skin? Isn’t that just another form of prejudice?
Many whites (or is it Caucasian Americans?) prefer to use the term African American as opposed to black. It sounds more respectful and seems to ameliorate a common discomfort among whites who haven’t a clue how to talk about, much less speak with, black people. Some black people use the two terms interchangeably, showing little preference for the use of one over the other.
Of course, the word “black” isn’t accurate either – it doesn’t begin to describe the spectrum of color we see in darker or differently colored skins. And “white” doesn’t really work for the continuum of pale most whites obsessively cover up with tans – real or fake.
What would happen if we could identify ourselves as Americans with a language that brings us together rather than keeps us apart?
For most of us, Pluto will always be a funny little in-between planet, shivering at his frigid outpost on the fringe of our solar community.
But one of these days, a new generation will come along that won’t know Pluto as we do – won’t know and won’t care about the controversy over his status, the debate over the little guy’s identity.
For that generation, Pluto won’t be a dwarf planet, won’t be #134340. Instead Pluto will be seen as just another heavenly body — uniquely individual and accepted for what it is.
Maybe that could work on Planet America too – all of our bodies could be seen as heavenly, regardless of color or race.
Maybe then we’d only need one word to describe our status as Americans: united.