Mister Mojo Rising

MOXIE or Moxy



SYLLABICATION: mox·ie

PRONUNCIATION: 'mäk-sE

NOUN: Slang 1. The ability to face difficulty with spirit and courage. 2. Aggressive energy; initiative: “His prose has moxie, though it rushes and stumbles from a pent-up surge” (Patricia Hampl). 3. Skill; know-how.

ETYMOLOGY: From Moxie, trademark for a soft drink.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moxie

Moxie, a carbonated beverage, is considered to be the USA's first mass produced soft drink.

Created in 1876 by Dr. Augustin Thompson of Union, Maine, Moxie was first marketed as a patent medicine in Lowell, Massachusetts under the product name “Moxie Nerve Food”.[2] Moxie was said to cure ailments ranging from softening of the brain to “loss of manhood.” In 1884, it was sold in carbonated form and merchandised as an invigorating drink, which claimed to endow the drinker with "spunk."

The name entered the American language, when a person was said to be "full of Moxie", meaning that the person was skillful, or spirited. In this popular meaning, the word is sometimes spelled moxy. Moxie became unique in that it was the name of a commercially produced soft drink, also included in dictionaries.

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Today's New Word

Recently an esteemed family member Susan [AKA Susan Gets Native], posted a reminiscence about an earlier period in her life when she had what she described as 'MOXY". It was an enjoyable and entertaining post which prompted a personal reflection on when or where I had actually lost what I considered to be my Moxy.

I remembered it as quite sizable, so surely if misplaced it should be easily found, yet I haven't, even accidentally, stumbled over it in at least 20 years it seems. So, it was I began my search. Looking first upstairs, then downstairs, in closets and pantries, in the cluttered basement and garage, in the trunk of my car, and in vintage boxes containing other artifacts of the period in which I assumed I was in possession of said Moxy - nothing. I drove around to previous places of employment thinking perhaps I had left it behind in haste, but still it was not to be found. Where was this elusive spirit, the mysterious potion of passion ? The legend of my own mind ?

This dilemma now certainly required a much deeper investigation - further inquiry as to its location possibly requiring GPS or other specialized equipment or perhaps even recruiting science to determine the precise molecular structure and physical manifestation of its character - I'm talkin' DEEP !

So, beginning at the beginning, my first display of Moxy came at an early age in the form of resistance to my involuntary commitment to the Catholic school system. After a very short time I realized this harsh environment, where torture was not only taught but practiced, was no place for a sensitive young boy and it was up to me to take control of my destiny.

My first act of defiance (much to the chagrin of my mother) was one to be played out daily at the school bus stop with all the resistant physical strength I could muster for as long as I could hold up. My resistance continued,days, weeks, months - like a cartoon scene my animated arms and legs stretched to full extension could not be forced through the limited entry space of the bus door, regardless of the manpower applied to the task. My wailing wiggling body was too much for the ears or grasp of my intended captors. And so this one boy insurgency went on for quite awhile until, I suppose, I was eventually worn down like McMurphy in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest - a valiant but futile effort ending in total humiliating submission. I was in time, however, to have my victory.

My next attempt at escaping this daily persecution would not seem so extraordinary except to remember that it was being planned and executed by a less than worldly undersized six year old with all the precision and determination of a long incarcerated hardened criminal. An act so simple yet so brazen as to allow my small mittened hand to deliver me from that evil I had been taught so often to fear.

The school bus that took us to the Catholic school was actually owned and operated by the local public school and our passage on that system ended about one quarter of a mile from our school. Herein lay the core of my new plan. Between the bus drop off and the school I was a free man. I would simply lag behind unnoticed by the rest of the drop-off group go over to the curb and stick out my thumb for a ride as I must have seen older kids do at some previous time. This sounds pretty logical but like most kids I had only taken the plan so far and neglected some key realities, but determination and desperation trump detail and the plan is executed. The drop off is made, I lag behind unnoticed, all was going according to plan, I get to the side of the road and stick out my tiny green-mittened hand, raise the thumb to its proper angle and elevation and waited for my escape vehicle to arrive.

Almost immediately a big car pulls over, asks my destination and I'm in the back seat and on my way home - brilliant ! The couple in the front seat ask my name, school, address,and seemed perfectly willing to drive me straight home - too easy ! On arrival they walk me to my front door and explain to my stunned mother the series of events and they are on their way. It turns out that they were parents of one of my classmates whom they had just dropped off at school. My mother without missing a heartbeat had me in a taxi en route to my school all within about fifteen minutes. So ends my great escape - the the catholic empire survives, and I'm in for another round of corporal punishment from the veiled Mafia. But I had made my statement ! Though I never repeated such an act the incident remains a high water mark of Moxy in my childhood portfolio.

The rest of my school career was pretty dismal, any remaining moxy safely locked away through 10 more years of suffering until graduation when I was pardoned and released like a caged bird into the wild. Freedom was to last but 9 months, until the US Military had other plans and I was set to be drafted. Perhaps a bit of Moxy spilled forth when I decided to take matters into my own hands and enlist, hopefully shifting the odds of (wartime) survival a bit in my favor (a very smart move indeed !). Yet this was more a reactive move and though clever may not really qualify as a "Moxy moment".

My next era of perceived Moxy came after entering the military and lasted for 6 years until my father died and further realities of life subdued my enthusiasms considerably. In hindsight, the term "Loose Cannon" comes to mind, what I had mistaken as Moxy, was in fact an under-educated arrogance that was nothing more than a byproduct of an immaturity cocktail followed by a testosterone chaser. Come to think of it, I stopped drinking then as well - a wise move.

From that point on any remaining opportunities to display true Moxy were replaced by the pragmatic pro-activity of maturity. Certainly I had past the point of spontaneous exuberance, but still there were some sweet moments, like the puzzled look on a supervisor's face as I calmly gave him my notice without ever revealing the true reasons, like a poker player executing the perfect bluff; or the personal satisfaction gained by the puzzlement of others when I failed to act in an expected behavior. Over time I had unknowingly discovered that Moxy can have many disguises acquiring pleasing subtleties previously unknown to the novice purveyor.

So in retrospect, it appears my missing Moxy wasn't really missing. It had simply peaked early, and having accomplished its appointed mission, found closure at an early age, and matured into a new guise of stealth cunning with an undercurrent of humor. Perhaps this discovery might have caused some disappointment, but having opened this round of self examination, the afore mentioned Susan came to the rescue by providing a clever and much appreciated conclusion.

In an unexpected retort to a comment I had left on her blog she replied clever and quick "My Moxy needs some Mojo". WOW ! Aside from the pure poetry of that phrase [!], it was with these words that I found (albeit some time later) my satisfying answer - to appreciate the Moxy for what it was (and had become) but to also find new inspiration in the Mojo of life.

Right On Susan - THANKS !

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mo‧jo

Pronunciation Key - [moh-joh] –noun, plural -jos, -joes.

1. the art or practice of casting magic spells; magic; voodoo.

2. an object, as an amulet or charm, that is believed to carry a magic spell. 
[Origin: 1925–30, American; cf. Gullah moco witchcraft, magic, prob. akin to Fulani moco'o medicine man (c represents voiced palatal stop)].

An amulet, often a small flannel bag containing one or more magic items, worn by adherents of hoodoo or voodoo.

Personal magnetism; charm.