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We all know that a rose will forever remain a rose, whatever name we
choose to call it by. But our perception of or reaction to a rose may well
change if we are told that it is something else, or even if we merely give
it some other name that has rather unroselike connotations. (‘Here close
your eyes and take a whiff of this sample of perfumed sludge. What do you
³Ù³ó¾±²Ô°ì?’)

Take whisky, for example. Last winter, hubby and I decided to abandon
our futile attempts to warm our chilly basement flat using the two-bar fire
method, and embarked on a whisky-tasting session. This was not so much,
as you may think, an excuse to get sloshed (well just a little), but an
occasion for a serious and scientific survey of the whisky market. With
the help of some friends, we studied the colour, swirled in our glasses,
sniffed at the glugged down numerous specimens (with and without added water),
carefully noting our impressions.

‘Smoky’, ‘electriying’ and ‘formal-dehyde’ were some of the more alarming
comments prompted by various samples. After reading out everyone’s descriptions,
we all had a second round (just to keep warm) and suddenly things tasted
different. The ‘tasteless’ became ‘peaty’, the ‘mellow’ became ‘sweet’,
and our friend Donna convinced me that the formaldehyde was vanilla (verified
against a bottle of the essence from the pantry).

The offical pronouncements of our little red whisky book had an even
more powerful effect on our impressions. After consulting this text we all
(except for John, who had a cold, and was partaking for medicinal purposes)
agreed that whisky No 4 smelled of iodine, even though, unprompted, none
of us had detected this odour.

Getting closer to the point of this article, a name, and particularly
a name with negative connotations, has the danger of becoming a definition
of something rather than being merely a label for it, or a description of
one or more of its aspects. If whisky No 4 had been clearly labelled ‘iodine
whisky’, we might all have dismissed it as such, and missed out on such
exciting impressions as: ‘Smells like those funny negative devices’, ‘Eastbourne
at low tide’ and ‘It’s strange, but I like it’.

All too often, people with certain medical conditions are described
in terms of their illness. This has obvious advantages to the clinician,
who becomes fed up with saying ‘the person with diabetes’ instead of ‘the
»å¾±²¹²ú±ð³Ù¾±³¦â€™.

But perhaps it would be better if the former term, or the simpler ‘the
diabetic person’ (diabetic here being an adjective that describes a particular
aspect of the person, rather than a noun that defines the person) were more
commonly used.

Labels can dehumanise people, and reduce patients to mere bags of symptoms,
rather than living, thinking, feeling persons who have symptons. Consider
my friend who has schizophrenia. He also likes fishing and cars, has a part-time
job, is of Anglo-Saxon derivation, and sees his girlfriend on weekends.
To call him ‘a schizophrenic’ would be to define him by his problems, rather
than by his character as a whole. This is obviously unjust; he has to cope
with having schizophrenia, but he also has better things to do.

Then there is ‘the scientist’. When I was granted my BSc in biochemistry,
I was horrified to realise that I had become – one of them. The Independent
might phone me up at 3 am, ask my opinion on almost anything, and quote
it as the official words of a scientist. I am now a Master of Science, and
the sense of responsibility is awesome. More frightening still, my husband
will soon (we hope) earn his PhD in physics. It took him the last two years
to figure out where we keep the Sellotape, and yet in two more short years
he will be capable of answering questions on everything from nuclear fusion
to the origins of the Universe with the voice of absolute scientific authority.

The job description ‘scientist’ has become synonymous with the person
who ‘does science’ (never mind the additional problem that ‘experiments
done to date indicate ..’ appears to have become synonymous with ‘this
is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but’). Of course, we also talk
about doctors, road-diggers, sailors and lawyers, but somehow we seem to
keep the titles more in perspective; they remain merely descriptions of
the jobs these people do, jobs which we recognise as having limits to their
scope.

To be fair, chiropodists are probably often assaulted at parties with
questions about Timmy’s toothache, but only ‘scientists’ are expected to
know everything. Don’t worry. I am not suggesting that we all start talking
about ‘Dr Frankenstein, the well-known person who madly, studies science’.
The noun scientist is too far ingrained in our language for its painless
removal. But I would put in a plea to those hearing or using the term to
remember that scientists are people too.

Beverley White is a lover of whisky who no longer lives in a chilly
basement flat in Cambridge.