That's My Beef

That’s my Beef.

No, not the cheap medium rare sirloin served at your local pub. Or the tender rib-eye, soaked in Diane sauce that you can only afford as special occasion grub.

Not the minced beef you put in your Spag Bol when you’re making dinner for your family.

Or the Beef Brisket that melts in your mouth, soaked in gravy.

I’m talking about my beef.

My beef that is scrutinized everyday by my own eyes.

It doesn’t matter if I’m happy with the shape of my breasts or my thighs.

It’s ingrained in me.

To only see my imperfect qualities.

We are conditioned to believe that we are flawed.

But in reality, we deserve to be adored.

You see, society teaches us not to complain.

That as women we are the ones who need to be tamed.

I mean, how dare we think for ourselves.

Live marriage-less lives and put motherhood on the shelf.

Beef can be defined as a complaint, a conflict or a grudge.

But no matter how much we speak up, nothing seems to budge.

I want to educate.

To evaporate the feeling of being second best.

So here I am, not turning my back.

Ready to get my beef off my chest.

My beef with catcalling.

My beef with slut shaming.

My beef with everyday sexism and victim blaming.

My beef with how man sees, and woman is seen; as too beautiful, too perfect and sexualised from the age of fifteen.

My beef with objectification.

My beef with calling women a temptation.

My beef with how this can lead to female genital mutilation, in some parts of the world.

My beef with ignorance.

My beef with being silenced.

My beef with how the majority of women at some point in their lives will experience a form of sexual violence.

My beef with shame.

My beef with ‘Get a load of her rack’.

But if you try to ‘grab her by the pussy’, be warned that pussy is going to grab you back.

My beef with the woman who screamed ‘have you got a fanny?’ at me from her car.

My beef with how this isn’t viewed as taking it too far.

‘It’s just banter’ they say.

But if it’s just banter why does it make me feel dirty.

That maybe I was asking for it because my outfit was a little too flirty.

My beef with the man who hunted me down in a pub; Who said ‘wow’ and then threw a receipt full of his details at me like a betting stub.

My beef with how I feel sick to the stomach when a man double my age grabs a hold of my left buttock.

Says ‘Alright Darlin’ continues on his way and I think, what a stupid fuck.

Do you really think that’s acceptable?

What if someone spoke to or touched your daughter in that way?

I’m sure you’d be the first one to speak up with no delay.

My beef with how I’m called a ‘fucking bitch’ for defending my dignity.

My beef with how I’m called ‘too sensitive’ and you begin to take pity.

They’ll say ‘oh someone’s on their period’

But if I have to bleed once a month to become irritable how come I always think that you’re a fucking idiot.

We shouldn’t keep our mouths shut, be submissive and put up with it anymore.

Its about time we take a stand and show sexism the door.

We can’t escape from it at work, in the street and sometimes at home.

But to be honest I think it’s about time you just left us the fuck alone.

Do we threaten you?

Do we make you question your ‘divinity’?

Just remember that you-are-not-a-God.

You can no longer blame it on the characteristics of your masculinity.

We have lived our lives being treated as second best.

People say we have it better now after multiple waves of feminism, starting with the Suffragettes.

I believe this to be true.

But we still have a long way to go and a lot of shouting back to do.

Only last year a young woman’s underwear was questioned as part of rape case. They treated her as if she deserved it for wearing lacey knickers.

Now that is a fucking disgrace.

In Northern Ireland it is still illegal, under most circumstances, for a woman to have an abortion.

She could be sent to prison for life under section 58.

Made to feel guilty for ending pregnancy during gestation.

It should be her choice.

Each woman has a reason of her own.

But no one will listen to her voice.

So, when I talk about my Beef, and believe me I could talk all day.

Don’t call me a ‘Feminazi’ turn your back and walk away.

Listen.

Go away from this and educate yourself.

Because right now I’m taking my beef off the shelf.

It’s ready to be unpacked.

It’s in date.

Raw.

And maybe, just maybe it will make you stop and reconsider the next time you decide to call a woman a whore...