How does a society bestow recognition on those who have earned it?

These days we’re very accustomed to the idea of awards. Organizations great and small give these out to individuals or works that have achieved recognition in their field: Most Valuable Player, the Nobel Prize in Physics, the Oscar for Best Actress, the Hugo Award for Best Novel. Countless numbers of these exist, many of them in domains the average person never thinks about, because that’s just not our line of work. If you told me there’s an award for Year’s Best Urban Design in Highway Interchange, I’d readily believe you — because why shouldn’t there be? That’s important work that can be done badly or well, and an award is part of how you nudge everybody toward imitating the good examples.

Of course, any time you have an organization, you also have politics, with all the trouble that implies. I’m sure any one of us could name the problems with awards: institutional bias, popularity contests, logrolling, the work given a prize not because it’s actually standout among its peers but because the person behind it really ought to have an award for something, shouldn’t they? A great deal depends on how the award is run, whether that’s by popular vote, a jury, or some other process. No method is without flaw; it’s just a question of which flaw is in play for a given instance.

But awards aren’t the only option, and I’m fascinated by the different ways human beings have come up with to honor each other’s deeds.

One option is to bestow a title on the honoree. The fact that “aristocracy” means “rule of the best” has little to do with it as a system of government, but there’s a long history of granting an aristocratic title to someone as a way of recognizing their achievements — in fact, arguably it’s the origin of such titles, way back in the distant past. We see this pattern in play even today, with the U.K.’s Order of the British Empire and other chivalric ranks bestowed on musicians, actors, and other individuals completely uninvolved with the peerage or military. In the seventeenth century, Adriana Basile (sister of the fairy-tale writer Giambattista Basile) received a barony for her music and poetry.

Or the title might be more closely related to the achievement, and carry some responsibilities along with it. Although “laureate” can refer in general to anyone who has won an award (thereby metaphorically crowned with the “laurels” of victory), for the last few hundred years the West has had the institution of poet laureates. Essentially this is a revival of the court poets of old, as they’re individuals expected to compose poems for special occasions and the honor of their community, but the title carries a distinct connotation of honor.

These days, we have a weird double meaning around the word “doctor.” Etymologically it means “teacher,” and its roots lie in the university system, but in modern English it’s come to be strongly associated with medical doctors specifically — to the point where some people will now insist that non-medical academics shouldn’t call themselves “doctors,” even when they have a doctoral degree. But universities will also grant honorary doctorates to people in a wide variety of fields, more as recognition for their prestige and skill than for their academic achievements — much less medical ones. A comparable but inverse situation exists in East Asia, where “sensei” (to use the word’s Japanese form) means “one who comes before” rather than “teacher”: as such, it can be used as respectful address for anyone who’s achieved mastery or authority in their line of work.

Japan is also one of a small number of countries where a person of great artistic prestige can straight-up be declared a living national treasure. (Properly speaking, they’re Preservers of Important Intangible Cultural Properties — e.g. artistic traditions — but the other phrase is commonly used.) Since living people may cover themselves in scandal or otherwise disgrace their status, it may be safer to bestow such honors after they’re dead . . . and come to that, sainthood can be viewed in this light, as a form of recognition granted posthumously. Though saints used to be declared while living, too!

Of course, just because someone’s dead doesn’t mean you’re necessarily safe from problems arising. California, where I live, just officially renamed Cesar Chavez Day to Farmworkers Day in response to the revelation that Chavez — who genuinely did great things for the labor movement — also sexually abused minors. We like to name things (days, buildings, even awards) after famous people, but then sometimes have to backpedal when that person’s less admirable side is revealed, or when the tide of opinion shifts: for the latter, see the names of Confederate generals or men who slaughtered Native Americans in the name of white manifest destiny.

Riffing off names, these can provide a more unusual way of recognizing someone’s achievement. Going back to Japanese tradition, sometimes a powerful nobleman would honor a subordinate by allowing that man to use one of the kanji from the nobleman’s name in his own. The Age of Legends in Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series had a neat angle on “name as award;” individuals customarily had two names, but those who achieved great deeds of one sort or another were permitted to use a third name. (So far as I’m aware, he provided no details on how this was determined.)

What do you get with your recognition, other than bragging rights? Many prizes come with some kind of physical representation, whether that’s a plaque, a trophy, or a piece of jewelry; a smaller number bestow money. Poet laureates and Japan’s Living National Treasures generally get an annual stipend, to help support them in their pursuit of their art. In societies with sumptuary laws (see Year One), an honored individual may be given special dispensation for a particular style of clothing, vehicle, or house. Even mortuary arrangements can be part of the recognition bestowed for achievement: great individuals might receive funerary parades, and it was recently announced that J.R.R. Tolkien will get a memorial in “Poet’s Corner,” the southern transept of Westminster Abbey, where a number of artistic luminaries are buried. (There’s not enough room there for everyone to get full burial, and the memorials often come well after the individual’s death.) Statues are a hugely popular option — and can become a highly visible and symbolic target for ire when opinion around that individual shifts.

So the interesting questions here are: what earns recognition, and what form does that recognition take? The answer to the former will tell you a ton about what kinds of skill or action that society values; if there’s a slew of honors for military service but none for public service, that’s a very different world from the one in which the reverse situation applies. And of course, the answer to the latter question shows a different kind of value in play, as the right to certain behavioral privileges might be the thing money can’t buy. But honored individuals starving in a gutter because all their recognition brought absolutely no financial support is a running and bitter joke . . .