Why do groups keep renaming themselves?

And how does it happen?

When I was a kid, Martin Luther King Jr. proudly led what he called the “Negro Revolution.”

Back then, “Negro” was a respectful term, a sign of pride. But today, if I casually referred to someone as a "Negro," it wouldn’t go over so well. How’d that happen?

It’s not just race. In the early 1900s, doctors labeled mildly disabled people “morons.” The next level down? “Imbeciles.” At the bottom: “idiots.” Those terms eventually morphed into “mentally retarded,” then “developmentally disabled,” and the evolution continues.

Our language for describing groups changes constantly. But why? And exactly how?

Let's start with Black Americans, or African Americans—whichever you prefer. (A 2021 Gallup poll found that 58% of Black respondents had no preference, and the rest split evenly. So, it’s officially a toss-up.)

Historically, in the 1800s, polite society called Black Americans either “Colored” or “Negro.” By the early 20th century, leaders like Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois promoted “Negro” as dignified, with Du Bois pushing hard to capitalize the "N" as a sign of respect.

After MLK in the mid-60s, activists like Stokely Carmichael pushed for “Black” as a more powerful and unyielding identity. He argued, “If we had said ‘Negro power,’ nobody would get scared. It’s the word ‘black’ that bothers people in this country, and that’s their problem, not mine.” By the late 1960s, Ebony magazine switched to "Black," and the nation followed suit.

Fast-forward to Jesse Jackson, who popularized “African American” in the '80s, arguing it emphasized cultural heritage, akin to “Italian American” or “Irish American.” This stuck in formal contexts but didn’t replace “Black” completely. Later, newer labels like “people of color” or “BIPOC” briefly surfaced, but fizzled quickly.

Why groups change their names

Groups don’t rename themselves just to mess with everyone else. Usually, it’s about shedding old labels tied to discrimination, asserting pride, or gaining political legitimacy, even if those terms were originally fine with everyone.

While some terms, like “wetback” for Mexicans illegally crossing the border, were always derogatory, most weren’t. For Asians, “oriental” was fine until it wasn’t. “Jap” was once just shorthand for “Japanese,” polite enough until World War II turned it toxic. Suddenly it became impossible to say “Jap” without malice.

And sometimes groups perform linguistic jujitsu, reclaiming past insults. "Queer" used to be a slur until LGBT activists proudly adopted it into their acronym. Similar things happened with words like "dyke," "cripple," "redneck," and "hillbilly."

This process is often political as well. Successful name-changers gain clout and influence. Jesse Jackson cemented his position as a civil rights leader partly by promoting “African American.” Cesar Chavez pushed “Chicano” over “Hispanic,” elevating his own standing as well.

Fundamentally, though, changing labels can invigorate a movement's followers, giving them a fresh sense of possibility—an insistence that society see them in a new light.

How does it actually happen?

So how exactly does a group successfully change its name?

They don’t just appear out of nowhere. These labels follow a familiar pattern, usually starting with activists, moving through media and academia, and finally reaching government and law.

Step one typically begins with younger, vocal activists promoting new terms to signal generational leadership.

Personal note … when I was a child, everyone called me Kenny. At age ten, I decided to reinvent myself—throwing off the shackles of my past—and I’ve been "Ken" ever since. The psychology’s similar.

But some terms never get past activist circles—like "Blaxican," "Ze/Zir," and feminist inventions like "Womyn," spelled with a “y” to erase "men" from the word. Activists might push these terms, but if they don't catch on with the media or academia, they're soon forgotten.

The second stage: media and institutional acceptance. The Associated Press Stylebook often serves as linguistic kingmaker—once they bless a new term (or condemn an old one), usage rapidly changes. Institutions like universities and corporations play a similar role. They standardize new language, often enforcing compliance through diversity offices. These changes then permeate professional environments, solidifying new terms.

The final phase occurs when governments adopt these terms, formalizing acceptance. Rosa’s Law in 2010 replaced "mental retardation" with "intellectual disability" across federal statutes. In 2016, Congress unanimously swapped "Oriental" for "Asian American." Once official, these terms stick, becoming permanently entrenched.

Pushback

Of course, not everyone goes along with the plan. Resistance usually stems from inertia, habit, or just a healthy dose of stubbornness—a "Who are you to rename me?" attitude.

Even institutional approval doesn't guarantee success. "Cisgender" and "BIPOC" are campus favorites, but they just didn’t catch on with the masses. "Latinx," despite relentless academic support, was decisively mocked and rejected by actual Latinos.

If I were a 60-year-old Latino and kids suddenly told me I had to call myself "Latinx," I’d tell them to go back to TikTok. Partly because—to me—the word sounds silly, but also because I'd instinctively reject their power to define me.

Practical resistance also follows when the new terms appear out of control. The transgender community introduced dozens of terms—"cisgender," "nonbinary," "genderfluid," "deadnaming," and neopronouns by the bushel. They demanded too much, too quickly.

The transgender movement also insisted that others rename themselves as well. Women weren't just women anymore; they were "cisgendered.” Academia bought in; America didn’t.

Language shapes the world, and also signals who’s trying to shape it. So the next time someone insists you say “Latinx” or “person with a uterus,” remember that it’s more than just about being polite. It’s about power, politics, and identity. Or maybe it’s just a bunch of college kids trying to rename the world before lunch. Either way, words matter.

Interested in learning more? I did a deep dive here in this video. Enjoy!

—Ken