In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the
neon fruit supermarket.
-Allen Ginsberg," A Supermarket in California,"
1955
Introduction
Welcome to H.E.B., one of Texas’ largest grocery chains
with over 300 stores throughout the state. Inside, we find the
visual trappings that are typical of the large-scale supermarket
industry: linoleum tiles, stadium ceilings, florescent lighting,
and clearly gridded aisles. At selected H.E.B. stores, however,
a new section called Nature’s Harvest has been created to
serve the needs of a different brand of shopper, a group I am
calling the “thoughtful class.” This class can be
defined by disproportionate access to education, wealth, and transportation.
They shop with moral and intellectual intention, putting their
money where their mouths are. The section of H.E.B that caters
to this type of consumer specializes in organic, “healthy
foods” and is visually separate from the managed aesthetics
(or lack thereof) governing the rest of the store; track lighting,
lowered ceilings, angled aisles, and hardwood floors greet H.E.B.’s
Nature’s Harvest shoppers. An exotic oasis among the clamor
of shopping carts, the natural food section provides the artificial
comfort of a local co-operative in the jowls of corporate consumption.
For the thoughtful class, shopping is a personal experience in
the moral landscape of organics. Imagined cultural ideals of eating
healthily while supporting cultural and biological diversity are
encouraged within the constructed supermarket space and are reinforced
through the commodification of historical and indigenous images.
In this paper, I will explore the ways exoticized histories and
representations of otherness are deployed on organic cereal boxes
to frame the healthy breakfast as an ancient ritual. I will also
analyze the ways ethnicities are constructed and commodified on
organic brand cereals and the aesthetic construction of opposing
histories through nostalgia for an idealized agrarian past.
The Setting
Cereal is a uniquely American food. A walk down the cereal aisle
is an experience in American vision. Unlike other sections of
the store where items vary by size or shape, the cereal aisle
has the same-styled box pressed one against the other. These standardized
8x11 boxes resemble hypercolor stacks of television sets, each
a visual talking-head flashing sports stars, cartoons, or slim
models. We find a similar, though differently hued, experience
in the Nature’s Harvest supermarket section. Here, the organic
cereal aisle is more like a terraced garden overgrown with images
of parrots and colorful, “exotic” people. It is an
interwoven expression of subaltern and popular culture. The iconic
predominance of the “natural” world speaks to this
association of all things green to all things good, and the multi-chromatic
array of faces reinforces diversity as the path to a balanced
meal. As such, the very nature of the cereal box is performative,
intended to attract the attention of the consumer through culturally
recognizable and emotionally resonant images.
The cereal box occupies a space, a vision, and a location all
at once. After we have purchased the cereal, we are expected to
sit down and read the box as part of the morning ritual. In an
oddly-sustained, postmodern version of a Norman Rockwell portrait,
the timeless place of the American cereal box, organic or not,
is atop a breakfast table, next to an open newspaper and a half-gallon
of wholesome milk. Indigenous images on organic cereal boxes are
used as cultural windows that bring the meals of the “natives”
into our home, and essentialize breakfasts across time and place.
To more closely regard the commercial reification of the “natural,”
I will consider one particular brand of organic cereal found in
all H.E.B. Nature’s Harvest health food sections: Nature’s
Path’s Mesa Sunrise.
Figure 1
The Box
The box of Mesa Sunrise cereal is a rich desert oasis within our
organic aisle garden. Orange skies and golden buttes halo a bounty
of gathered grains on the front of the box, over which curls the
cereal brand name in a font suggestive of petroglyphs. The carefully
crafted title, Mesa Sunrise, conjures up a mythical, Southwestern
landscape while subtly referencing the actual home of the Hopi
Indians: Northern Arizona’s Three Mesas. The brand name
is quixotic, evocative, and highly poetic (see figure 1). In Sunrise,
we are reminded how natural and timeless the morning ritual of
breakfast is; the high, flat-top Mesas are the world’s own
breakfast table. Sunrise also recalls a pre-industrial epoch when
the passing of time was not marked by the clock, but by the natural
rising and falling of the sun. On the back of the box, we find
a bricolage of historicized images, effluent quotes, and scientific
jabber, peppered along the margins with peeling corn and flowering
plants. The overall presentation of the box is intended to tell
the cultural and environmental story surrounding the cereal we
are about to consume. By displaying a collection of disparate
images in this way, a self-reflexive framework of meaning is crafted
which totals more than the sum of its parts. These images are
strategic; each historic reference builds on the next to construct
an overall product narrative: history is available for consumption.
For example, an image of three women kneeling over their stone
metates is captioned with the text, “Hopi women grinding
corn” (see figure 2).
Figure 2
Figure 3
The image is visually intimate and sepia-toned, as though we
were witnessing a private moment at home. Yet, with some research,
we find that the Hopi image is a photoshopped version of an early
photograph taken by renowned photographer Edward Curtis in 1907,
merely twenty-five years after the Hopi reservation was created
(see figure 3). At that time, ethnographers, missionaries, and
government agents were all climbing the mesas, vying for glimpses
into the Hopi world. Alone, Curtis’ presence as a camera-laden
White man would likely render the gentle domestic scene contrived.
Mesa Sunrise cereal locates itself in the landscape and constructs
a stereotypical Hopi ethnicity around a “real” (though
itself constructed and highly problematic) historical image of
grinding maidens: no other information or details are given beside
the caption. The dress, hairstyles, and posture of these women
are not contemporary, and would likely only be seen in a ceremonial
or performative setting today. Yet, without historic information
or contextualization, we are made to believe that these three
Hopi women are still grinding corn in the recesses of our mass-producing
consumer present, just as Nature’s Path wants us to believe
that we are reading the cereal box from our own Norman Rockwell
breakfast table.
Native Americans are not static cultural beings as portrayed on
Mesa Sunrise; they are American consumers in their own right.
Over-simplified images of “timeless natives” are used
to represent a moment in time when humans had a more humble relation
to nature. Disparate tribes are grouped together to further show,
as the box says, “the pivotal position that corn has held
in the cultural lives of indigenous peoples.” Sitting just
atop the industrious Hopi image is a quote regarding the Navajo,
“Corn is the Navaho staff of life, and pollen is its essence.”
Just below, we find a brief Zuni coming-of-age anecdote: “The
Zuni people of the American Southwest measured time through kernels
of corn. A ‘generation of corn’ would be counted from
when a boy received his first planting seed to the time he gave
the seed to his own child to plant.” These quotes are double
constructions in that they offer no Native voices; only the words
of the “expert” are decontextualized and used as testimony.
The complexity of Zuni and Navajo cultures are reduced to single,
pithy narratives constructed around cereal. While these sound
bites may carry residues of historic validity, their uni-dimensionality
steals from them any real chance for meaning. Native Americans
represented on this box of cereal are fixed as media icons through
the commodification of their tribal identity or through the market
potential of their supposed traditions.
Figure 4
The back of the cereal box offers the central message: “Mesa
Sunrise - Cereal That Whispers Secrets of the Past” (see
figure 4). The “secrets” of indigenous pasts are just
that—whispers, the lifeblood of oral tradition to be counterposed
to written history. As such, these whispers carry traditions that
are transferred from one group to the next, as seen in the story
of the Zuni boy and his father who pass time and wisdom through
their heirlooms of corn. Mesa Sunrise implies that without the
textual “knowledge” of “real” (i.e. written)
history, fact is reduced to myth and history reduced to ethnohistory.
Moreover, while these possessors of traditional knowledge may
hold valuable information, their experience is neither associated
with thought, nor individualism. Rather, it is assumed that oral
knowledge should pass unmarred through the transmitters of human
memory; critical thinking and autonomy must be subverted in the
process.
For the Mesa Sunrise consumer, the “past” is neatly
divided into the left- and right-hand sides of the cereal box.
To oppose the North American Indians’ use of corn as a spiritual
and calendric sacrament (on the left-hand side), the manufacturers
place (on the right) the great European “cultivation”
of cereal for early scientific and medicinal purposes. Through
this visually articulated division, we see two contrasting histories
that serve to validate and contradict one another.
The Message
In “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy,”
Arjun Appadurai makes the following statement about a situation
similar to the one we find on the Mesa Sunrise cereal box, “Here
we have nostalgia without memory. The paradox of course has its
explanations, and they are historical: unpacked, they lay bare
the story of American missionizing and political rape” (3).
A critical reading of the text-and-image collage on our box finds
a potential naturalization and trivialization of the backbreaking
labor of those involved in actual cereal production and those
who ground corn on their hands and knees. Moreover, a subtle gendering
occurred during the photo alteration of the original 1907 Hopi
photograph. Unlike the Edward Curtis 1907 photograph, none of
the Hopi women portrayed on the box of Mesa Sunrise are making
eye contact with the viewer. Instead, they are all looking down,
suggesting the passivity of indigenous, female labor. The presentation
of passive Native women on their hands and knees asserts a contemporary
“we are better off” notion that is reaffirmed through
iconographic analogies between breakfast in “our world”
and food production in “their world.” Behind the seemingly
innocuous representation lies the mechanics of power that allow
one group to own another through manipulation of image and identity.
Indians captured on the cereal box have been appropriated by capitalist
production, a fact which must not be overlooked.
The act of naming others is an act of control through representation,
as it has been observed by academics and consumers alike (see
Berkhofer and Bordewich). Native Americans have long suffered
the brunt of such representation. In many places, antiquated cigar-Indians
still flank drug stores and cigar shop entryways. Painted or feathered
Braves and Redskins still make their battlecries on the fields
of sports teams. And the Land-o-Lakes butter Indian sits “Indian
Style” atop her creamed throne, adorned with a single feather
and two browned knees emerging from under her buckskin skirt (see
figure 5). Aside from their lingering remnants, the classic twentieth-century
images of the American Indian are now largely understood as racist
caricatures. As noted by scholars and activists (see Alexie, Churchill,
Dilworth, and LaDuke), these representations are far from vanquished;
rather, they are being re-marketed to a contemporary audience
under a different premise. There has been a significant shift
from the stoic Chief and sexualized squaw, to the deeply spiritual
and environmentally conscious Native American. Now, a different
ideal—the natural—is being sold through a modified
Native American image.
Figure 5
Because the vast majority of American families were once immigrants
to this country, Americans have taken the liberty to “rewrite
history in a self-justifying manner by redefining Native Americans
as part of their own past” (Huhndorf 5). Contemporary American
life is often held in oppositional tension to an imagined pre-industrial
Native American world. This is not wholly a new phenomenon. As
Leah Dilworth remarks in her seminal work, Imagining Indians
of the Southwest, anthropologists were using ethnography
as a tool for critically assessing popular American culture as
early as the 1920’s (192). Not long after his linguistic
work with the Hopi, Edward Sapir published an article in the
Journal of American Sociology that polarized the Southwest
United States into “genuine” and “spurious”
cultures, the former representing an ideal pre-industrial state,
and the latter encompassing the fettered modern world. Much as
might be seen today, “spurious” American culture was
encouraged to look to indigenous culture for a cure to the spiritual,
cultural, and physical woes caused by over-industrialization.
Sapir writes, “Genuine culture is inherently harmonious,
balanced and self-satisfactory” (314). Nature’s Path
uses the Hopi image of industrious small-scale corn production
to invoke the fantasy that Mesa Sunrise is hand-made rather than
mass-produced. It is thus more “natural”; if you eat
it, you will feel harmonious and balanced.
This harmonious and balancing Indian replaces its racialized predecessor
with a softer, more “authentic” and “natural”
representation. Today’s “Indian” is as much
a creation as the cigar Indian, crafted hodgepodge from staged
photographs, stolen stories, and fabricated rituals. Thus, two
contradictory, but constantly intertwined, modes of imagining
indigenous peoples occur. The complex and shifting valences of
respect and disregard converge in the public imagery today. All
such representations, whether flattering or disparaging, are fundamentally
dehumanizing.
While Nature’s Path cereal would not admit to representing
Indians in such iconic forms, we see from the above discussion
that “their” Native Americans are stereotypes nonetheless.
What is unique about the marketing scheme employed on Mesa Sunrise
is the very intentional tribalization of its indigenous representatives.
Through early ethnography and photography, individual tribal identities
can be forged into a display of cultural diversity and historical
accuracy. All the while, the identities of individual indigenous
actors are blurred behind generalities of tribal affiliation.
The Hopi women grinding corn are neither listed by name nor differentiated
in dress. Their consumer worth is not in the product of their
work but in the labor of their kind: “authentic, primitive,
and undifferentiated.” Superficially, the cereal box attempts
to dismantle this “homogenized Indian” by tribally
differentiating between Native cultures in the Southwest. Likely
resulting from their historic relation to the early railroad tourism
industry, as well as their own successes at self-promotion, the
Zuni, Hopi, and Navajo tribes have become culturally recognizable
entities. I believe that the deliberate reference to these tribes
serves a separate function beyond the replacement of an older
generation of essentialized Indian forms.
Nature’s Path does not use just any tribal identity to (re)present
its cereal. The Hopi and Zuni have long been recognized as popular
tourist attractions in the Southwest. They are culturally marked
and seen as historical remnants of earlier times. Grand Canyon
guidebooks abound with one-dimensional descriptions of their cultures
and directions to the nearest pueblo gift shops selling their
“traditional” crafts. The guidebook put out by the
Arizona Association of Bed and Breakfast Inns and available electronically
for online perusal reads: “The Hopi village of Oraibi is
one of the two oldest continuously inhabited communities in the
United States. While it is possible, with permission, to wander
around Oraibi, you will likely learn more about Hopi culture by
opting for one of the guided tours of Walpi village, which sits
atop First Mesa. Throughout the Hopi mesas you will find numerous
crafts shops and artists' studios where you can shop for kachinas,
silver jewelry, and pottery. From the Hopi mesas, head south to
I-40 and back to Flagstaff.” The Bed and Breakfast Association,
an exclusive echelon of the hotel industry, has marketed itself
around a patron type who appreciates exotic life, “off the
beaten path,” with the comforts of home. Just as the language
of the B&B guidebook appeals to a particular type of traveler,
so too the back of the organic cereal box appeals to a selective
group of consumers, perhaps the groups even overlap. These strategic
marketing representations reflect the way consumers imagine their
own, as well as other, cultural identities and make their choices.
The language of the cereal box relies heavily on history-rich
words such as “over the millennia,” “ancestors,”
and “generations,” to develop an overall feeling of
history. Yet, as mentioned above, we are presented with two distinctly
different historic timelines. The history of European civilization
where agricultural decrees (“800 AD Charlemagne passed laws
requiring people to use flax”) and medicinal knowledge (“Hippocrates
used flax to relieve digestive problems”) are encrypted
in text (“Evidence from the writings of Hippocrates show”)
and are held against the traditional past of North America (presented
in pictures and stories) where wizened ancestors passed on ancient
farming knowledge through whispered secrets and ritual. Although
it has been archaeologically established that natives cultivated
both flax and amaranth in what is now the Southeastern United
States well into the thirteenth-century, Mesa Sunrise only shows
Native Americans as raising “colorful maize.” The
Old World stories of flax and amaranth include dates (5000 BC,
650 BC, 800 AD) and recognizable names (Charlemagne, Hippocrates)
in order to show the pedigree of an identifiable history as opposed
to a New World pre-history full of undocumented ancient traditions.
These disparate timelines are intended to weave through each other,
imbuing Mesa Sunrise cereal with a whole world of historic and
grainy diversity sanctioned by “natural” tradition
and historic veracity. All the while, the methods of analysis
are essentially Hegelian; by employing the logic of dichotomy,
European reason and science are deified.
The box reads, “Every spoonful of Mesa Sunrise connects
you through the centuries to knowledge and traditions around the
benefits of ancient grains that contemporary science is now beginning
to support.” We read that contemporary science is finally
catching up to the wisdom gained through history. A scientific
lexicon (soluble fiber, lignans, and omega-3 fatty acids found
in flax) further legitimates a “traditional” past
and brings this past into the present. Scientific and historical
language and images are used in emotionally evocative ways. Cereal
grains are bound up with symbolic meaning, and this meaning is
codified in traditional food diets, historical names, dates, and
places. Compared to the ancient peoples’ world and their
ties to nature, the present, not unlike Sapir’s “spurious
culture,” is seen as a world of loss. Consumers now have
the opportunity to reap both the benefits of contemporary scientific
knowledge and colorful ancient ritual.
The organic movement is ripe with nostalgia for the “simpler”
era when the process of eating was itself a ritual act. The images
Nature’s Path presents show the Native American past as
one that is bound up with ritualistic agrarian practices. These
images actively assert a valid and natural connection between
food and wisdom. Moreover, the cereal box language presents the
past in such a way that suggests we too can gain wisdom through
eating the same ancient grains. Just as we are intended to digest
the guidebook histories of the Native Americans through images
and quotes, our bodies are granted effortless access to “centuries
of knowledge” through breakfast cereal. The cereal goes
beyond simply asserting that healthy food will make us wise. By
presenting the powerful history of ritual food practices, consumers
are enticed to bring ritual into their own lives through the consumption
of organic foods. The pre-existing American cultural practice
of eating breakfast (à la Norman Rockwell) can be imbued
with meaning and enshrined in ritual when the element of moral
intention is added. The knowledges and “by hand” labor
of the Native are rich with tribal significance but empty of meaningful
autonomous action. Today’s shopper can bring individuality
to the past by translating the ancient experience of eating naturally
into a contemporary organic lifestyle. A ritual of healthy eating
(including, of course, corn and flax found in Mesa Sunrise), will
enrich the body and the mind, creating a wiser person, which in
today’s consumer society is equivalent to a thoughtful class
of shopper. Mesa Sunrise relies on a narrative of nostalgia for
the timeless yet vanquishing primitive that is validated by a
scientific lexicon and a constructed Old World history.
Conclusion
Mesa Sunrise is a cornflake cereal boasting ingredients of organically
grown and processed flax, amaranth, and “Indian corn.”
The cereal box itself is like a miniature Levi-Straussean museum
assembled from the stolen bodies and cultural sacra of the past,
and reworked into a modern narrative. The images that collide
and are juxtaposed on the box belong to two different visions
of the past, one traditional and the other historical. Much like
H.E.B.’s constructed “Nature’s Harvest”
environment, Mesa Sunrise cereal constructs a visual narrative
around fabricated cultural identities, thereby creating a product—and
a consumer—just exotic enough to be healthy.
Works Cited
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Series; No. 9. Los Angeles: U of California P, 1993.
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Arizona Association of Bed and Breakfast Inns. 2004. <http://www.arizona-bed-breakfast.com/travelplanner-5.html>.
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American Indian, from Columbus to the Present. New York:
Vintage Books, 1979.
Bordewich, Fergus M. Killing the White Man's Indian: Reinventing
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Churchill, Ward. From a Native Son: Selected Essays in Indigenism,
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LaDuke, Winona. The Winona Laduke Reader: A Collection of
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Sapir, Edward. "Culture, Genuine and Spurious." American
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