Why You Should Nickname Your Belongings
The surprising utility of lightly anthropomorphizing your stuff.
Harvey in my pocket.
Some would call it a 2020 Motorola Moto G Stylus smartphone.
But I call him "Harvey."
I picked up Harvey for just over $200 when he was new. These days, he may need an afternoon “nap” on the charger and no longer receives software updates.
Why “Harvey”?
I named my phone after esteemed ultra-runner, Harvey Lewis. That Harvey is not only a two-time champion of the Badwater 135 Ultramarathon — a 135-mile run through Death Valley, California where temperatures can reach 130°F, but also a champion in the "backyard ultramarathon" style of foot race—a unique race style that has nothing to do with speed and everything to do with endurance.
Every hour, on the hour, participants must run and complete a loop 4.167 miles long, (a specific distance which equals exactly 100 miles every 24 hours) until only one person remains.
At Big's Backyard Ultramarathon in 2023, Harvey Lewis set a world record—completing 450 miles in 108 hours. And pretty much on no sleep and a completely vegan diet—which he attributes to his victory.
But when he's not breaking world records, Harvey is simply "Mr. Lewis" to his students as a high school social studies teacher in Cincinnati, Ohio for over 20 years.
He's tough but he's humble—like my phone. It may not be the fastest or flashiest device but the Harvey in my pocket still keep completing his laps every day.
But why bother naming my phone? Simply put, to remember why I like "him" so much and so I'm not tempted to throw him by the wayside while he's still running a perfectly good race.
Replacement Consumerism
As members of Western society, we have become completely enamored with the latest material goods. From clothes to phones to watches to cars, we're always looking for the next version of our thing.
While there's nothing wrong with researching superior products when our current items are beyond repair, this replacement mentality has filled our dumpsters just as fast as its has drained our bank accounts. And just as soon as the new-car-smell wears off, we're quick to repeat the cycle.
But not all of the world shares his attitude towards disposable consumerism.
African Ingenuity
I was recently watching one of the many vlogs of another tough runner, Russ Cook, aka "The Hardest Geezer" — a fellow ginger-bearded stomper from Worthing, England, who, as of the publishing of this piece, is finishing up the last two countries on his mission to be the first man to run the entire length of Africa.
In one episode, while Russ was covering one of his 50-70km running days, some of his film crew were sitting in the shade of their battered support vehicle, discussing the attitudes of the residents of the African countries they had noticed, met, and often befriended.
One of the photographers noted just how much longer many Africans keep their cars running in comparison to these European visitors.
"Back in the UK, many of us will write a car off over a bad clutch. Africans, on the other hand, will drive their cars sometimes literally into the ground—even if there is no ground where they drive them." (Ok, maybe I paraphrased this quote.)
At first, this comment made me think about my own car, a slightly tired white 2009 Chevy HHR sport wagon I've named "The Ecto 2." Despite being on its third clutch, I would argue the Ecto 2 would be a capable little brother to the Ghostbusters' "Ecto 1."
Their comments also said quite a bit about the very vehicle they were leaning against.
Nicknamed "Nelly," their support vehicle was a smallish pale blue school bus that had been outfitted with solar panels, sleeping bunks, and a water storage system. They shipped it from England to South Africa where they had driven it over rough terrain, getting it stuck numerous times, once had it towed accidentally into the back of dump truck, destroying the wind shield. Another time, they loaded Nelly onto a tiny barge using thin boards to be transported across rough pirate-infested seas, and she’s still trucking. From the jungles of the Congo through the Sahara Desert, Nelly has been there.
Oddly enough, though I've watched nearly a dozen episodes of their adventures, I still draw a blank on some of the crew member's names. But not Nelly. She's as much a part of the crew as any of them by now—covering more mileage than any crew member. Part of me hopes they find a way to bring her back with them home to England rather than offload her for parts in Tunisia.
The Utility of Nicknames: Creating a Pause
All of this comes down to an attachment we place on personal names. From your parents warning you against naming the stray cat you found for fear of attachment to the dehumanization of replacing someone's name with a number, names create a pause for empathy.
When it comes to material items, anthropomorphization (a fancy word for treating non-living items somewhat as living beings) can have various positive attributes.
Within the military, some soldiers will name their weapons—following the expression from the Stanley Kubrick film "Full Metal Jacket" in which Marines declare in unison: "This is my rifle. There are many like it but this one is mine," after being commanded to "give your rifles a girl's name."
While for some, this is simply superstition, for others it is a bonding mechanism that allows them to trust their tools, and thus their training, in tense situations. This can be a source of stability in an otherwise unstable environment.
But what are the benefits of anthropomorphizing items in terms of nicknaming objects for us civilians? Again, I would argue that this creates a pause for empathy—not necessary toward the feelings of the item (which it has none) but for our use of and care for our stuff.
Imagine that you're out on a walk. On the side of the road, you find a teddy bear. Mud streaks its belly and one button eye hangs loose from worn threads. Relieved that its not a dead animal, you move along.
Now imagine that what you actually find is your favorite stuffed animal from childhood.
For me, that would be Stephen the Raccoon — a simple stuffed raccoon that my older brother picked out for me from the hospital gift shop hours after I was born. At the time, I was in the NICU with a needle in my head and tube down my throat. More than once, I've rescued Stephen from the trash, from the muck, and restored him back to "health" for snuggles at bedtime.
If I walked past Stephen in a mud-filled ditch, I'd likely step knees-deep into the soggy earth, tear him from the filth, and provide a relief-filled hug on the spot.
I'm not asking that we reserve this amount of adoration for every item we own but rather consider adding a pause to our consumerist impulses before chucking out an older either perfectly fine or perfectly repairable item for a new shiny widget.
And sometimes that simply means giving our stuff a nickname.