Are upscale tiki bars any better than Aunt Jemima in use of ethnic imagery?

Whenever I walk down the aisles at Safeway or Target and witness nonBlack people buying Aunt Jemima products, Uncle Ben’s rice or even the occasional box of Cream of Wheat — brands that have long had African American faces as logos — I think about shopping with my grandfather as a kid. Each time he bought one of these containers, he would shake his head before putting it in his cart. I now understand why. My grandfather, who is in his mid80s, knew something it would take me about two decades to figure out: Just because these brands had Black faces on the boxes didn’t mean they were being marketed to Black customers. In his eyes, Aunt Jemima was simply a $3 representation of the “mammy” archetype, which has roots in the antebellum South, the part of the country where he grew up. And both Uncle Ben’s and the Cream of Wheat guys seemed to portray what white people of that time also enjoyed: a passive Black man who smiled, dressed well and cooked their food without complaint.

So what segment of the population have these companies been courting through their caricatures of fictional Black people? I’ll give you a hint: It wasn’t Black folks like me, my aunts or my uncles.

The national discussion regarding race and representation was reenergized this year through Black Lives Matter protests following the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis. Expanding the dialogue to branding is a natural next step that helps to include the trials of other marginalized communities in the U.S.

This thought process brings me to Bay Area branding problems, and what local imagery today causes me to shake my head in the same way my grandfather used to do years ago.

High on the list are upscale tiki bars. Since 2016, they have seen a rapid rise in popularity, especially in the Bay Area. My thinking is the country has spent the past few years in a political and social uproar, which seems to have reached a peak during the pandemic, so drinking amid palm fronds became an avenue for muchneeded mental escapism.

But $17 mai tais are a luxury much of the Bay Area’s Black and brown populace cannot afford, especially those who have familial ties to the culture of the South Pacific from which tiki bars riff. So again, who are local tiki bars catering to with their dining room designed to look like a jungle, or wooden skulls situated near what’s supposed to be a damaged airplane fuselage?

The same goes for businesses that aren’t run by Black people using black culture to sell products. In 2017, a whiteowned San Francisco cookie dough shop had flavors with names like “This S’More is Hella Lit.” And while finding something as blatantly hiphop derivative is a bit harder these days, it’s still possible to come across things worthy of a double take.

Peruse Oakland long enough and you’ll stumble across a whiteowned bar selling “cutty bangs,” which are drink bundles that come with hard alcohol and a mixer, which have a long history in the West Coast rap scene. Are these for local Black bespoke cocktail drinkers?

I’m finally seeing the world through my grandfather’s eyes. He was a man who lived his youth in the 1920s40s when Black celebrities had to straighten their hair with dangerous chemicals to make themselves more palatable to white audiences. The conk gave way to the Afro in the 1960s during the Black Power movement.

Even though it was just hairstyles, the transition felt like tangible social progress to my grandfather. And the Aunt Jemima, Uncle Ben’s and Cream of Wheat logos always felt like steps backward whenever he had to buy a box.

It turns out the most important lesson my grandfather may have taught me was never verbalized. The shakes of his head in the grocery stores showed just how powerless problematic branding can make a person feel. So I encourage people to think about this even after this pandemic ends, and they find themselves at a Mexicaninspired restaurant owned by a white person. Look at the art, listen to the music, see if any respect is being paid to the culture and people from which the business pulls its inspiration.

Do the same at coffee shops and clothing stores pandering to the Black dollar post2020 racial reckoning, with drinks and outerwear themed after historical Black figures. Who is buying those lattes and hoodies?

Hopefully we all can see the world through my grandfather’s eyes. And in doing so, we can avoid, maybe years from now, shaking our heads in disappointment over something we could have addressed right now.

Justin Phillips is a San Francisco Chronicle staff writer. Email: jphillips @sfchronicle.com Twitter: @JustMrPhillips