School Uniforms-What Purpose do They Serve?

This is a powerful and deeply emotional topic to me—one that speaks to the core of what education might become if we we dare to truly reimagine it. It feels important to pause and reflect honestly on the purpose of school uniforms. What are they really for? And whose needs do they ultimately serve?

If we’re striving for an education system that reflects the diverse, dynamic world we live in today, then it’s worth questioning whether uniformity still has a place. The idea that all students should look the same can feel at odds with a world that increasingly values individuality, inclusion, and self-expression.

There’s something deeply human about wanting to be seen for who we are. For many young people, especially teenagers, clothing becomes a central form of self-expression—a way of exploring identity, culture, and belonging. To take that away, even with the best intentions, can unintentionally silence something vital.

I’ve never worn a uniform myself, and I struggle to imagine what it would’ve felt like to have that one main outlet for identity taken from me at such a formative age. It raises important questions about how we define discipline, belonging, and respect in schools—and whether those values can be upheld without erasing individuality.

Perhaps it’s time to think beyond the old industrial model of education—where conformity and skill acquisition were once seen as necessary—and start imagining systems that celebrate agency, creativity, and the whole person and not just the student’ their ability to perform and comply, but their full, complex humanity.

It may not be a simple shift. But if we’re serious about preparing young people for an uncertain, evolving future, then we might begin by making space for them to show up as their true selves—right now!

a difficult relationship

My prior discussion about the football as a gendered object — and especially how I talked about my own complicated relationship with it — sparked a lot of interest on this blog. I didn’t really expect that, but maybe it makes sense. For a lot of people, a football is just a thing, a piece of sports equipment. But for me, it’s always been a lot more than that. It carried this weight — physical and emotional. It felt like something I was supposed to connect with, supposed to embrace, because of what it meant in the world I was raised in. Masculinity, toughness, fitting in. But I didn’t always feel like I had a place in that world. So the football became a strange object to me — both familiar and foreign, something I understood but wasn’t comfortable with. So yeah, I guess that’s why it feels relevant to try and explain it now. To me, it wasn’t just a ball — it was this little, compact object that carried everything I wasn’t sure I could or wanted to be a part of. It bothered me the way it was inflated and always so firm — no matter how many times it got kicked, thrown, slammed into the ground — it just kept coming back. The air destined to be trapped inside, unable to come out, so tight, so tense. The thick, tanned, rugged skin that couldn’t be broken not matter how manny times it was kicked. The harder it was kicked the quicker it bounced back. The repeated shapes, so tightly bound together. That kind of pointless resilience and compliance was something I didn’t want and it really bothered me that somehow had more power than me. It was like the football was performing this version of masculinity I didn’t want to match — never showing weakness, always bouncing back, like pain didn’t really stick. I wasn’t that tough. I didn’t want to be. But there it was — this object I was made to believe I should match , dictating what I should and shouldn’t be, always strong, always unaffected’ and yet, it was just a ball! This object always rejected me! It was a constant reminder that I wasn’t part of something. At school, when teams were being picked, and I was left standing there, not being seen, chosen, included. There’s something about being passed over, again and again, that quietly reinforces your difference, even when you’re not entirely sure you wanted to belong in the first place. But the football, just sitting there in the middle of the field, became the embodiment of that divide. The thing I was outside of. And while I was holding all these feelings — the rejection, the confusion, the quiet resentment — I didn’t really understand the joy everyone else seemed to get from it. The aggressive kicks, the loud shouts, the celebration around all that stuff, how the ball love them, but not me. There was this wild enthusiasm involving the football, that was more than just the game. Like it was freedom or belonging or identity or something. But to me the game just looked like putting this object in a box - literally — just trying to get it across a line, into a goal, into a space it was meant to fit into. That was what felt strange — how it all seemed so simple on the surface, but felt so loaded underneath. They were all out there chasing joy, and I was standing on the edge, watching, not quite sure what it was I was supposed to be feeling. I remember going to football matches with my father, trying to grasp something — trying to feel what he felt, or at least understand it. I didn’t really know what it was. Maybe pride, maybe excitement, maybe some unspoken rite of passage. But mostly, I ended up falling asleep and becoming a disappointment. Many times I asked for footballs, with a pretend enthusiasm, I learned how to mimic the joy, to cheer when it seemed right, how to act like I was part of it. But I never really got it. The connection never clicked. It felt like all the other boys had this natural connection to the game, to the object, the football liked them but didn’t like me; and I was just hovering around the edges, performing the motions without the feeling. But the idea of engaging with it in that way — the chasing, the kicking, the shouting, the aggression to then putting it in that box it was meant to be in — it was never for me. I tried, but it always felt like I was borrowing someone else’s rhythm, someone else’s joy. There was a script everyone else seemed to know by heart, and I was just mouthing along, hoping it would start to mean something. It never really did, or at least not till recently when I decided to claim it in my own terms and make it my friend!

The Nail as a Co-creator in Redemption

Cruciform Matter: The Symbolism of Nails in Easter Art through a New Materialist Lens

I could not let the Easter season pass without revisiting the Crucifixion of Christ from a new Materialist lens and place the nail at the centre of this discussion. So yes!…..the nail occupies a central yet often overlooked place in Christian iconography and art, particularly within the context of the Passion and Resurrection of Christ. Traditionally emblematic of human sin, divine suffering, and eventual redemption, the nail is most recognizably associated with the Crucifixion—where three nails are said to have affixed the body of Jesus to the cross. In liturgical art, the nail functions not merely as a visual signifier but as a theological anchor, a condensation of Christian soteriology into physical form. However, when reinterpreted through a New Materialist framework, the nail emerges not as a passive object but as a vibrant material agent implicated in the unfolding of sacred history. This text explores how the nail, particularly in Easter-related artworks, can be re-understood as a co-constitutive material actor, drawing on the works of Jane Bennett, Karen Barad, and Bruno Latour.

The Nail in Traditional Christian Symbolism

In Christian doctrine and iconography, the nails of the Crucifixion are symbols of both physical suffering and metaphysical salvation. As seen in works such as Giotto’s "Lamentation" (c. 1305) or Matthias Grünewald’s "Isenheim Altarpiece" (c. 1512–1516), nails are depicted as dark, oversized, and central to the viewer’s gaze. They function metonymically: the violence of the Passion is condensed into the cold steel piercing Christ’s hands and feet. Often, these nails are depicted post-Crucifixion—removed and venerated as relics (e.g., in Hans Memling’s "Man of Sorrows" (c. 1475)), underscoring their transformation from instruments of torture to objects of devotion.

New Materialism and the Agency of the Nail

New Materialism, as an intellectual movement, emphasizes the agentic capacities of matter, rejecting Cartesian dualisms of subject/object or mind/body. In this context, the nail is not merely a symbol within human theological systems, but rather an ontologically significant actor entangled with the divine event.

Jane Bennett, in Vibrant Matter, writes:

“The political project of naming the force of things is to induce a more cautious, intelligent approach to our engagements with matter.” (Bennett, 2010, p. x)

The nail, then, is no longer an inert implement but a vibrant participant in the cruciform narrative. In artworks that accentuate the materiality of the nails—such as Antonio Ciseri’s "Ecce Homo" (c. 1871) or Bill Viola’s "The Passions" (2000–2002) video series—the viewer encounters not only the physical suffering of Christ but also the material presence of the nail itself, which commands its own affective and spiritual weight.

The Nail as Networked Actor

Bruno Latour’s Actor-Network Theory (ANT) contributes another angle by framing objects as actors within networks that produce meaning and effect.

“Things are not just the hapless bearers of symbolic projection; they might authorize, allow, afford, encourage, permit or forbid particular actions.” (Reassembling the Social, 2005, p. 72)

In this view, the nail is not a mere background element but an actant within the Passion network. The nail authorizes crucifixion. It allows the fulfillment of prophecy. It encourages theological reflection, and forbids the erasure of suffering from the redemptive narrative.

Artworks like Grunewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece emphasize this material agency. The grotesquely emphasized nails protruding from Christ’s hands become almost sentient—co-conspirators in redemption.

Contemporary Reimaginings: Nail as Posthuman Relic

In contemporary Easter-themed works, artists have begun to abstract or isolate the nail, inviting reinterpretation. Kiki Smith’s "Born" (2002) explores the female body in relation to Christian themes, using materials like bronze and glass that echo the sensory tactility of nails. Likewise, Sokari Douglas Camp’s steel crucifixions reframe the Passion with postcolonial and posthuman overtones, emphasizing the metal of the nail as a continued agent of violence and spiritual endurance.

Here, the nail becomes both material relic and ethical question: what does it mean to venerate an object of violence? How does the material continue to act in the present?

To view the nail through a New Materialist lens is to radically reconfigure its role in Christian theology and art. It is not a mute implement of suffering, but a material agent, a vibrant co-participant, and a theologically entangled actor in the Easter narrative. As both relic and representation, the nail's continued artistic presence invites viewers and theologians alike to consider how matter participates in the sacred—not merely as symbol, but as sacred matter itself.

Works Cited

• Barad, K. (2007). Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Duke University Press.

• Bennett, J. (2010). Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Duke University Press.

• Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford University Press.

‘Dissecting Objects

I often find myself in challenging debates about gender, struggling to navigate the complexities of roles and expectations. This objectual inquiry stems from my curiosity about how gender is constructed and perceived. The most highly charged gendered object I could think of is a football—an object that I always had a difficult relationship with.

I chose to interrogate its gender identity, hoping to surface new meanings in the ongoing gender discourse and what it means to me. What happens when the air, meant to be trapped inside, is released? How does the object change? What happens to its masculinity? What does it become in its deflated state? Through this exploration, I aim to challenge assumptions and uncover deeper insights into the fluidity of gender itself.

The surgical tools embody the practice of dissection objects as a form of critical artistic inquiry. This method is grounded in a deconstructivist approach, where the artist goes beyond the surface of the object to examine its deeper layers—material, historical, symbolic, and cultural (Derrida, 1976). Such an approach is deeply informed by the philosophical and artistic traditions that challenge traditional readings of objects and meaning, particularly in the context of post-structuralism (Barthes, 1977; Foucault, 1980).

By peeling back the layers of objects, this artistic practice seeks to uncover hidden narratives and histories that have often been marginalized or erased. It calls into question the dominant interpretations and the assumptions embedded in the object’s original context or cultural use (Benjamin, 1936). In this regard, the process engages with ideas from both archeological and anthropological readings of material culture (Gell, 1998), where objects are seen not just as passive, static entities but as active participants in the construction of meaning and identity.

Moreover, this practice opens space for new interpretations, offering a critique of the seemingly stable and fixed meanings attributed to everyday objects. It challenges the viewer to reconsider what is perceived as familiar, thereby engaging critically with the object’s deeper, often obscured significance (Latour, 2005). Through this engagement, the artwork invites a rethinking of power, agency, and the politics of representation within the material world.

References:

• Barthes, R. (1977).Image-Music-Text. Hill and Wang.

• Benjamin, W. (1936). The Work of Art in the Age of mechanical reproduction. Schocken Books.

• Derrida, J. (1976). Of Grammatology. John Hopkins University Press.

• Foucault, M. (1980).The Archeology of Knowledge. Pantheon Books.

• Gell, A. (1998). Art and Agency. An Anthropological Theory. Clarendon Press.

• Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the Social: An introduction to Actor-Network Theory.Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory. Oxford University Press.

‘Promessas De Cera’

These have just arrived in the post! 'Promesas de Cera' (wax promises or offerings) are deeply symbolic religious practices rooted in devotion, healing, and embodied expression. Devotees leave wax figures in churches as a form of thanksgiving or fulfillment of a vow. This practice is associated with ex-votos, which are offerings made by believers in gratitude for a grace received, such as the healing of an illness or the resolution of a problem. Reframing this practice within a New Materialist framework and turning it into an artistic-pedagogic model opens up a lot of rich, interdisciplinary territory. New Materialism rejects the idea that matter is inert or passive. Instead, it emphasizes the vitality of matter, relationality, and the entanglement of humans and non-humans. Key thinkers like Jane Bennett, Karen Barad, and Rosi Braidotti explore how objects, substances, and bodies all participate in meaning-making. Wax is not passive. It melts, holds, deforms, and carries stories. The material is expressive in itself. The body parts modeled in wax are literal representations of physical-emotional states—pain, healing, desire, hope. These offerings form a dialogue between material and spiritual realms, bridging the tangible and intangible, human and divine.