Busted Biscuits

~ A Southern-fried altar call for women who’ve been shrinking too long.

Healing doesn’t come all at once. And honestly, if it did, I think it might just kill us. It takes time ~ like gravy from scratch ~ it’s gotta simmer and thicken before it’s worth anything. And when healing does come, it usually sneaks in through unexpected places.

I don’t know about the fellas, but for women who’ve spent years trying to play shrinking violet ~ whatever the reason… so we’re not seen, don’t draw the wrong kind of attention, aren’t ‘too much’... it’s exhausting. You know what I mean, right?

And sometimes healing shows up in a “Towanda moment.”

Y’all remember that scene from Fried Green Tomatoes ~ Kathy Bates in a Winn-Dixie parking lot, all shrunk down from years of being “pleasing”... until some young, entitled girls steal her parking spot. Then she snaps. Rams their car and hollers,

“Face it, girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.”

It was a breaking point. It wasn’t about the parking space. It was about HER space… her right to take up some room.

Well, turns out I’ve got an alter ego, too. I just didn’t realize it fully until today. Her name is Dora Jean.

She’s been simmering like Uncle Bruce’s Brunswick stew on a Saturday afternoon before the Dawgs kick off ~ rich, bold, and about to boil over.

My Granny used to call me Dora Jean when I was being sassy or goofy as a doorbell ~ when I was bustin’ at the seams with sass and sound. About a year ago, feeling nostalgic, I made myself a work shirt like my Granddaddy used to wear ~ you know the ones ~ plaid with pearl-snap buttons. I had the name “Dora Jean” stitched on a patch. Saw my friend Karen do it and thought, the only thing more Southern than that is a quick run to the Piggly Wiggly for a moon pie, RC-Cola, and loaf of Sunbeam.

So back to my own Towanda/Dora Jean moment.

I was heading to Lowe’s for paint. As I pulled in, I noticed multiple handicapped and veteran spots were open. I’m a veteran, but I’m able-bodied, so I always check to make sure there are plenty available before I take one.

But today… I needed something.

I needed to validate myself.

No one made me feel small but me. That’s the part that hurts the most ~ and the part I finally decided to change.

For years, I’ve made my service small. I didn’t serve as long as others and certainly wasn’t a lifer retiring from service. I wasn’t deployed to a war zone. So I told myself my offering was less somehow.

But Dora Jean rolled her eyes and reminded me: I raised my hand during wartime ~ while Desert Storm was still active. I enlisted through a deferred entry program and shipped out to Fort Jackson for boot camp in March of 1991. I may not have known where I’d be sent, but I knew what I was signing up for. I didn’t run from it. I stepped toward it.

Against my mama’s pleas, I cannonballed toward something bigger than myself. I may not have worn my boots in Kuwait, but I stood closer than most. And I did it willingly ~ at 19 ~ ready for all that came with it. That’s not peacetime. That’s wartime service. No combat, but I still said yes when the world was on edge ~ and that offering is valid. Every stitch of it.

So today, Dora Jean parked in that veteran space proudly.

It wasn’t about the parking spot. It was about MY spot… my place in this world.

Am I letting myself expand fully into who I am and what I’m meant to be?

Because I’m weary of playing small so others can feel big. I’m weary of biting my tongue when others don’t. I don’t need special treatment ~ I just want equal footing.

And I’m convinced, with Dora Jean riding shotgun, I’ll get there.

Because here’s what you need to know:

Once the can of biscuits is busted… honey, you can’t shove that stuff back in.

So expand.

Rise up.

And butter your own damn biscuit.

Dora Jean’s final word…

“God didn’t knead all this strength into me just so I’d sit pretty and stay quiet. I rose for a reason... and the shrinking violet is now a whole garden, thorns and all.

And when I draw my final breath and leave this earth for my heavenly home ~ holding a casserole in one hand and a glitter pen in the other ~ somebody better make sure my headstone says, ‘Mother. Daughter. Friend. Cannonball.’”

Wearing my truth today… Dora Jean stitched on my chest, fired up in my bones, and finally showing up for myself.