THE DILEMMAS OF CONSCIENTIOUS CONSUMERISMIN 1995 AND 1996 SWEATSHOPS WERE HITTING THE HEADLINES IN American news media. Federal agents had found indentured Thai immigrants working in an apartment in El Monte, California, producing apparel to be sold at major retailers. Soon after, labor rights activists had shown that child workers in Honduras were producing Kathie Lee Gifford’s line of clothing for Walmart. Amid the surge in attention, several researchers began asking Americans if they would pay more for clothes to be made in decent conditions. One study found that 84 percent of respondents would pay a dollar more for a twenty-dollar garment (Marymount University Center for Ethical Concerns 1999). Other studies found that 76 percent would pay five dollars more (University of Maryland 2000) and 33 percent would pay as much as ten dollars more (Hertel, Scruggs, and Heidkamp 2009). With markets for organic food, fair trade coffee, and a variety of green products growing, many observers hoped that a market for “sweat-free” apparel would follow (Elliott and Freeman 2003). But could these survey responses be taken seriously? Would consumers really pay more, or would they revert to a search for low prices once they were in the store? Furthermore, if some consumers were actually willing to pay more, what exactly would this mean? Would it represent a deep concern about working conditions and social justice around the world, or would sweat-free just become a status symbol, a way for well-off consumers to feel superior to those who shop at Walmart and other discount retailers?
In this chapter we delve into these types of meanings and dilemmas of conscientious consumerism. Our analyses in the previous chapter focused on individuals’ answers to survey questions—asking them if they had “purchased a product for political, ethical, or environmental reasons.” Their responses provided a revealing look at the overall patterns of conscientious consumerism. But those analyses could not tap into either individuals’ actual behavior or the larger social meanings of conscientious consumption. Simply put, people may buycott far less than they say they do. Or their purchases of eco- or social-labeled products may have more to do with self-interest and social status than with ethical commitments. To deepen our analysis and inquire into the promise and limitations of conscientious consumerism, this chapter takes on two main tasks. First we look more closely at markets for eco- and social-labels, including evidence about whether consumers are willing to pay more for assurances of fairness and sustainability. Then we take a critical look at the cultural meanings and political implications of conscientious consumerism. Ostensibly “ethical” acts may turn out to be merely self-serving or contrary to their supposed goals.
Popular satires hint at some of the dilemmas of conscientious consumerism. The IFC television show Portlandia has satirized the quixotic quest for local, sustainable, and “authentic” food with a couple who, while ordering in a restaurant, begin to ask about the origins of the chicken on the menu. Unsatisfied with the server’s answer, they leave the restaurant to inspect the farm for themselves, and they end up falling under the spell of a charismatic farmer-guru and living “off-the-grid.” For its part, Comedy Central’s South Park devoted an episode to the cloud of “smug” that emerged from the moral superiority of hybrid car owners. These depictions suggest that self-satisfaction and a certain style of elitism are bound up with conscientious consumerism.
Whatever one thinks of these particular depictions, there are good reasons to be concerned that conscientious consumerism can reflect the priorities of the privileged and have antiegalitarian consequences in consumer markets. Food consumption, for instance, has become highly stratified, with affluent consumers in the United States enjoying the “ecological cornucopia” of the Whole Foods grocery chain (Johnston 2008) while poorer consumers are stigmatized for poor taste and the “moral decrepitude” of obesity (Guthman 2007a). Furthermore, if some consumers are convinced that they can sufficiently protect their families or change the world simply by “voting with their dollars,” they may disengage from civic and political life, undermining the foundations of collective rights and state regulation. We argue that an overarching ideology of conscientious consumerism is indeed counterproductive. Yet specific practices of conscientious consumption can sometimes be consistent with an egalitarian, socially engaged form of citizenship. To consider how, we begin with a closer look at consumer behavior, including the extent to which it is tied up with self-interest and altruism. We then consider the key dangers of conscientious consumerism as well as evidence that these dangers are very real but not entirely overwhelming.
In many ways the market for eco- and social-labels has boomed. The number of sustainability labeling initiatives worldwide has grown from fewer than 50 in 1990 to nearly 450 in 2012.1 While some labels have struggled to find a market, other labels have found significant niches, or in a few cases have even become dominant. Consider the growth of the Energy Star label in the United States, which identifies products that meet energy efficiency standards set by the Environmental Protection Agency. As of 2000, Energy Star appliances accounted for around 11 percent of the sales of dishwashers, 9 percent of clothes-washing machines, and 27 percent of refrigerators. By 2009 the vast majority of dishwashers sold in the United States were Energy Star models, and its share of clothes-washing machines and refrigerators had increased to nearly 50 percent and 35percent, respectively (US Environmental Protection Agency 2002, 2010).
Consider also the growing market for organic food. Sales of certified organic food in the United States increased from $1 billion in 1990 to over $29 billion in 2011 (Organic Trade Association 2011). On a per capita basis Americans went from spending an average of $13 per year on organic food in 1997 to an average of $82 in 2010. As figure 2.1 shows, European consumers were already spending more than Americans on organic food, and their purchases continued to grow over that period. Across eight European countries, per capita spending on organic food went from $27 to $92 on average from 1997 to 2010.2 Organic food remains a small part of the larger food and beverage market—less than 5 percent in the United States (Organic Trade Association 2011)—but it nevertheless represents a striking shift in consumer tastes. Advocates of other eco- and social-labels often point to the rise of organic food as evidence that there is robust consumer demand for alternative production processes, even when it means paying more.
Figure 2.1: Per Capita Annual Consumption of Organics and Fair Trade Products in Europe and the United States. Sources: Fairtrade Annual Report (FLO 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011); “The World of Organic Agriculture” (Richter and Padel 2005; Schaer 2009; Willer and Kilcher 2009, 2012; Willer and Toralf 2004; Willer and Yussefi 2007).
Yet a closer look at these examples suggests that the market for sustainability is more fragile than it first appears. Both energy efficiency and organic food are cases in which consumers may perceive a direct private benefit from the purchase of a labeled product. A desire to save money on their energy bills may lead consumers to buy energy-efficient appliances. Even if this is only one factor, saving money surely amplifies any desire consumers might have to promote energy efficiency for broader environmental reasons.
Consumers may also have self-interested reasons to buy organic food. Many consumers prefer organic fruits, vegetables, and milk because they are perceived as safer, healthier, or more nutritious (Johnston and Szabo 2011; Hughner et al. 2007; Szasz 2007; Zanoli and Naspetti 2002). In fact, moments of heightened concern about personal and child health have helped to build the market for organic food. For instance, concerns about the safety of milk from cows injected with the rBGH hormone led to a “not in my body” reaction that greatly facilitated the growth of the organic milk market (DuPuis 2000). Eating organic food does reduce consumers’ exposure to pesticides with health risks to some degree (Holzman 2012), but it is telling that for many consumers the perception of organic food is so tied up with personal health that they overlook the fact that organic standards are fundamentally environmental standards. The organic farming movement began with concerns about industrial agriculture’s consequences for soil fertility (Guthman 2004), and organic standards ban synthetic pesticides and fertilizers in large part to safeguard groundwater, soil, and biodiversity. Yet some consumers are either unaware that organic standards are environmental standards or are attracted to organic food for reasons that have nothing to do with environmental protection. For instance, in a survey of 555 randomly selected undergraduate students at Indiana University in 2009 and 2010, we found that 43 percent of them reported buying items labeled as organic often or very often in the past year. But strikingly, only 65 percent of this subgroup said they had bought a product labeled as environmentally friendly (often or very often in the past year). In other words, at least 35 percent of those who commonly bought organic products did not appear to think of the organic label as an eco-label. Furthermore, less than half of the frequent organic purchasers (41 percent ) reported frequently buying something deliberately for “political, ethical, or environmental reasons.” In fact, 20 percent of them said they had never (in the past year) deliberately purchased something for these reasons. Taken together, these findings suggest that it was common for students to be frequent organic consumers without thinking of this as an environmental or ethical decision.3
For instance, the introduction of dolphin-safe tuna labels helped to slow the decline in tuna sales in the early 1990s (Teisl, Roe, and Hicks 2002). Saving dolphin populations can preserve ocean habitats, and consumers may see dolphins as especially worthy of sympathy and protection, but there are no direct private benefits of consuming dolphin-safe tuna. Similarly, although there are probably no health benefits when it comes to organic clothing, when Patagonia switched to organic cotton, its customers proved willing to pay significantly more for cotton flannel shirts (Casadesus-Masanell et al. 2009). Even though it costs more, office paper made from recycled pulp has developed a sizable market. For tissue paper, American consumers have clung to varieties made from virgin pulp, but European consumers have been more willing to pay a bit more for recycled content (Walsh 2009). There is evidence that some Americans are willing to pay more for recycled paper products (Guagnano 2001), but on the other hand, even after twenty-five years of wide availability, recycled paper products have remained only a small part of the American market.
“Fair trade” is the clearest example of a label that does not offer private benefits to consumers, often costs more, but nevertheless has a significant market. As discussed in chapter 1, fair trade markets have become especially large in the UK. Sales of Fairtrade-certified coffee in the UK grew by more than 700 percent from 2002 to 2012, ultimately accounting for roughly a quarter of the coffee market (Fairtrade Foundation 2013). Fairtrade bananas and chocolate, which were barely available in 2002, were outselling Fairtrade coffee in the UK by 2012, with one-third of bananas sold being Fairtrade (Fairtrade Foundation 2013). In the United States, Fair Trade–certified coffee amounts to only around 3 percent of the total coffee market, but its sales boomed in the 2000s. The volume of coffee certified by Fair Trade USA (previously TransFair USA) increased from only around 76,000 pounds in 1998 to 163 million pounds in 2012. Per capita fair trade consumption in Europe and the United States increased over time as well. Across eight European countries, per capita yearly spending on fair trade items grew from $1.32 in 2002 to $12.60 in 2010. In the United States it grew from $1.16 in 2005 to $3.15 in 2010.
But as figure 2.1 illustrates, fair trade sales have remained far below organic sales. On a per capita basis, American consumers spent twenty-six times more on organic than fair trade products in 2010, and European consumers spent over seven times more. In the United States, sales of Fair Trade products are estimated to amount to roughly one-fortieth the size of the organic industry (Hainmueller, Hiscox, and Sequeira 2011; Transfair USA 2009). We see fair trade as the exception that proves the rule: consumer demand for ethical production does exist, but to a much lower degree when consumers do not view those products as having direct private benefits.
Are consumers willing to pay more for products that do not directly benefit them, such that conscientious consumption initiatives might truly be a viable way to improve global labor and environmental conditions? Will consumers actually pay price premiums? If not, or if the size of the premium they will pay is small, then the promise of conscientious consumption may be quite limited. To address this question we consider the existing evidence—fragmentary as it is—on consumers’ willingness to pay more for labeled products.
Using surveys, researchers have often estimated that 60–80 percent of consumers in North America and Europe are willing to pay more for fair or sustainable products. But these numbers are obviously hard to square with the limited size of actual markets for fairly or sustainably produced goods. The reason is rooted largely in some combination of “social desirability bias,” meaning that individuals adjust their answers to match societal expectations, and the “attitude-behavior gap,” wherein even honest intentions are set aside in practice (Vermeir and Verbeke 2006). One step toward better measuring willingness to pay through surveys has been to consider the importance of standards relative to other features of the product (size/shape, quality, etc.). When researchers have conducted such surveys by using “conjoint analysis” (a technique in marketing research) or other, similar methods, they have found that something more like 10–16 percent of consumers are willing to pay price premiums for ethically made products (Auger et al. 2003; Auger et al. 2008; De Pelsmacker, Driesen, and Rayp 2005; Dickson 2001; Loureiro and Lotade 2005).4
Yet these results still rely on self-reporting about hypothetical purchases. Field experiments, in which consumer behavior can be observed directly, have become the gold standard for estimating whether consumers are willing to pay premiums for labeled products. Of course field experiments are difficult to carry out, since they depend on finding stores that are willing to let researchers manipulate their products and prices. In addition, some attempted experiments have turned out to suffer from design problems and practical challenges (Arnot, Boxall, and Cash 2006; Hiscox, Broukhim, and Litwin 2011; Hiscox and Smyth 2006; Prasad et al. 2004).5 For instance, Roy Anderson and Eric Hansen (2004) worked with two Home Depot stores in the Pacific Northwest to compare sales of FSC-certified and noncertified plywood. When prices were identical, the certified wood far outsold the noncertified; when a 2 percent price premium was added, the certified wood’s sales fell dramatically but still amounted to 37 percent of the total sold. Unfortunately, in addition to the small scale of the experiment and the small premium, incomplete labeling in one store left the researchers uncertain about the actual willingness to pay for certified wood. Monica Prasad and her colleagues’ (2004) experiment sought to compare sales of identical athletic socks—one set labeled for “Good Working Conditions”—that sat side by side in a department store in a working-class neighborhood of Detroit. Roughly 25 percent of customers were willing to pay a premium for the labeled socks, up to a 40 percent premium. Unfortunately, however, using identical socks with only one set labeled could easily have confused consumers or led them to question the legitimacy of the label. Moreover, the baseline price of the socks had to be reduced to just one dollar in order to generate enough sales to complete the experiment in the allotted time, so a 40 percent premium meant consumers were spending only forty cents more.
In a more sophisticated experiment, Jens Hainmueller and Michael Hiscox (2012) worked with Banana Republic to randomly assign 111 stores around the country to place signs emphasizing the company’s labor standards next to selected products. This allowed the researchers to compare sales in these stores to sales of the same products in other Banana Republic stores. Their findings provide a mixed picture of consumer interest in labor standards. Emphasizing labor standards increased sales of a $130 women’s linen suit by 14 percent, but sales did not increase for cheaper products, such as an $18 pair of women’s yoga pants or a $12 men’s T-shirt. It seems that Banana Republic consumers interested in cheaper goods were not especially attracted to labor standards, but those interested in more expensive goods were. Unfortunately, in this case the researchers were not able to add price premiums to the labeled products to assess whether consumers would pay more for standards.
In an experiment involving Fair Trade coffee, Hainmueller, Hiscox, and Sandra Sequeira (2011), were able to add premiums, though this experiment was conducted on a somewhat smaller scale, involving twenty-six stores that were part of an upscale grocery chain. An initial goal was to understand the influence of the Fair Trade label on sales at existing prices, so the researchers randomly assigned half of the stores to attach a label to the bulk bins for Fair Trade French roast and Colombian blend coffees, while the other stores sold the same coffees at the same prices but did not label them. Labeling increased the sales of the Colombian blend by 13 percent and of the more expensive and popular French roast blend by 8 percent. A second goal was to estimate the elasticity of demand when prices were increased. Half of the stores were randomly assigned to raise the prices of the two Fair Trade blends by $1 (to $12.99 per pound for French roast and $11.99 per pound for Colombian) and to display a label that linked the higher price to Fair Trade certification.6 The other stores sold the same coffees at the original price with a similar label.7 When the price was increased, sales of the popular French roast coffee actually increased by 2 percent, showing that consumer demand was quite inelastic to a price increase. But sales of the Colombian blend decreased by 30 percent, revealing the elasticity of consumer demand for this product. A cheaper and unlabeled alternative, Colombian Supremo, saw a 16 percent increase in sales when the premium for the fair trade Colombian blend was added, suggesting that consumers readily switched to a substitute when confronted with a price increase. Since the French roast coffee was more expensive to start with, Hainmeuller and his colleagues suggest that consumers who are not especially cost-conscious are willing to pay more for ethical guarantees—a finding that mirrors the results at Banana Republic. With Fair Trade French roast coffee amounting to around 11 percent of this company’s total bulk coffee sales, the segment of consumers willing to pay more was not trivial, but neither was it especially large. This experiment is perhaps the most rigorous test of consumers’ willingness to pay more, and the researchers went to great lengths to rule out alternative explanations (like seasonal trends) and examine substitution patterns.
Of course, these experiments measure only what consumers are willing to do for a particular purchase at a single point in time. Over the course of multiple purchases of different products, we would surely find a larger number of consumers who are willing to pay more at some point. Generally the research to date shows that some segment of consumers is willing to pay more for standards that do not directly benefit them, but the size of this segment varies across products and settings and probably amounts to a minority of consumers in affluent countries. The percentage surely lies below the rosy estimates of 60–80 percent from survey research but above the lower estimates of around 10 percent that can be extrapolated from field experiments at single points in time.
While adding a dose of realism to the celebration of conscientious consumerism, this evidence also holds room for optimism that consumers will support alternative production methods, even if these cost more and do not have clear benefits for the consumers themselves. Shopping can be consistent with altruism, not just through gift giving or tipping but also through a willingness to pay more in support of standards for the production process. Of course, as our later chapters examine, the simple assurances of labels are often a poor match for the complexities of production, and consumers’ mainly unreflective actions may outweigh their occasional conscientious ones. But these are not the only implications of conscientious consumerism that are open to doubt. The rise of conscientious consumerism may exacerbate inequality or depress political engagement among consumers. Sorting through these dilemmas is essential.
“Voting with your dollars” is, by many accounts, an important form of political activity. As Michele Micheletti and her colleagues have emphasized, it can expand the sphere of politics, attracting more individuals to political issues and ultimately subjecting companies to more extensive oversight (Micheletti 2003; Stolle, Hooghe, and Micheletti 2005). The market in this account is an especially important “venue for political action” for those who are marginalized in—or alienated from—conventional political channels (Micheletti 2003, 12). As individuals become engaged consumers, their consciousness of public concerns at both local and global scales may expand (Barnett et al. 2005; Clarke et al. 2007). Furthermore, consumer concern may politicize products and question dominant production practices when governments are paying scant attention to these issues. Changing consumer preferences may also insert new urgency into gridlocked domestic or international negotiations. When activists “name and shame” companies and mobilize consumer concern, it brings these companies and issues into public debates that would likely not occur if political engagement were limited to conventional channels (Micheletti 2003).
Seeing consumption as a new form of political engagement has been especially attractive in light of concerns that traditional forms of political and civic engagement are on the wane. Most famously illustrated by Robert Putnam’s (2001) “bowling alone” metaphor, scholars in the 1990s increasingly argued that citizens in advanced democracies were joining fewer voluntary associations, voting less, and participating in fewer social clubs than they had in previous eras. Yet while proponents of this “decline thesis” worried about the demise of collective civic life and the vitality of democracy (Macedo et al. 2005), others argued that citizens were simply engaged in new and different ways, which were not captured by researchers’ typical metrics (Dalton 2008). Seen in this light, being a conscientious consumer may be a new mode of political and civic engagement. Added to this, globalization and the rise of neoliberalism have led many to hope that consumption can be a meaningful form of global politics. In an era of globe-trotting companies and “thinned” nation-states, perhaps consumer concern can regulate global industries to some degree. If standard-setting programs are a form of “transnational private regulation” (Bartley 2007b), then conscientious consumption may be a way of “voting” for regulatory controls.
One important objection lies in the inequality that is built into conscientious consumption as a mode of political expression. To put it simply, while the underlying idea of democratic citizenship is “one person, one vote,” the corollary for conscientious consumerism is “one dollar, one vote.” In an era of vast economic inequalities, both globally and in most domestic contexts, the power for the wealthy to influence industries far outstrips the economic “voting power” of the disadvantaged. In this sense conscientious consumerism is necessarily at odds with egalitarianism. Even if “voting with your dollars” were widespread, some people would have more votes, and thus louder voices, than others. It is hard to see this as a model for a reinvigorated form of democracy. Although democratic institutions have their own problems of participatory inequality, they are at least characterized by normative appeals to equality, which are largely absent in markets (Bryant, Goodman, and Redclift 2008; Friedland, Rojas, and Bode 2012). To the degree that political participation drifts toward the market and away from political institutions we may be drifting farther away from the ideal of democracy. In this way, conscientious consumerism may be contrary to the idea of citizenship (Reich 2008).
This objection has a practical side too: Relatively wealthy, highly educated consumers value different things than other consumers and citizens. As discussed in chapter 1, “post-materialist” values such as environmental protection are closely linked with the practice of conscientious consumerism. If poor and working-class people had an equal role in defining “ethical” production, social justice and labor rights would arguably be more central (Johnston, Szabo, and Rodney 2011). As Margaret Gray (2014) shows, demands for local and sustainable food have largely overlooked the often dire conditions of migrant agricultural workers on small farms. In general, by catering to the preferences of affluent consumers, standard-setting initiatives may marginalize some voices and create very partial and skewed forms of regulation. In other words, the problem with “one dollar, one vote” is not merely that it reproduces inequality in an abstract sense, but that those with ten dollars will vote (multiple times) for something different from what those with one dollar would have voted for.
Conscientious consumerism may also exacerbate inequality by symbolically excluding or marginalizing some populations. More than just personal status symbols, consumer goods communicate signals about social class and reinforce class inequality. People have long used consumption to distinguish themselves from others, creating symbolic boundaries that mark high-status and low-status groups (Bourdieu 1984; Veblen 1949 [1899]; Lamont 1992). In the nineteenth-century United States, elites used the consumption of “high culture” to distance themselves from the masses, using orchestras and art museums to valorize their class position and consolidate their power (DiMaggio 1992). Though less stark, there are reasons to worry about upper-middle-class consumers using conscientious consumption as a way to valorize themselves and symbolically marginalize those in lower-class positions.
Scholars have been especially attuned to the development of symbolic boundaries around food. They have argued that what counts as ethical, high-quality, authentic, and generally “good” food has been defined by privileged groups who emphasize eating locally, eating organic food, and treating animals humanely (Johnston, Szabo, and Rodney 2011). What is most problematic is when these definitions of “good” food also come to define who is and is not a “good” person. In this way, symbolic boundaries are drawn between classes, and the lack of “good” eating by those who are less privileged is attributed to a lack of morality or good taste as opposed to structural constraints or biased standards (Johnston, Szabo, and Rodney 2011). As Julie Guthman (2007a) has pointed out, much moralizing about healthy, sustainable food ends up treating obesity as a symbol of moral decrepitude, and even dehumanizing those who are overweight. In addition, patronizing attitudes among privileged white proponents of sustainable food have often made spaces where it is celebrated, such as farmers markets, exclusionary of poorer and nonwhite individuals (Guthman 2008).
Such dynamics are not unique to food. Catherine Dolan’s (2007) interviews with consumers of Fairtrade flowers suggest that while the fair trade movement has hoped to build reciprocal relationships between producers and buyers, for consumers, buying fair trade may solidify a sense of moral and economic superiority. In her analysis, “while the act of buying a Fairtrade flower (coded as ‘giving’) confirms the piety, prestige and moral rectitude of the consumer, it also reproduces the consumer’s power in the relationship [with a poor farmer]” (256). Looking historically, it is not difficult to find examples of seemingly conscientious consumption being used to draw exclusionary boundaries. In the late 1890s the National Consumers League created its “White Label” for undergarments “made under clean and healthful conditions.” This was partially an attempt to improve working conditions, but it also exploited wealthy consumers’ fears of “dirty” and “diseased” immigrant workers in tenement sweatshops (Sklar 1998; Wolfe 1975). At various points in the twentieth century, “buy American” campaigns have been used for narrow nationalistic purposes, exploiting antiforeigner sentiments (D. Frank 2000). In subtle and not-so-subtle ways, then, conscientious consumerism can be parochial and exclusionary, and it can exacerbate inequalities on the basis of both social class and racial categorization.
Although some see it as expanding the sphere of politics, there are also reasons to worry that conscientious consumerism could represent a retreat from political engagement, ultimately diminishing the prospects for strong social movements. One possibility is that conscientious consumerism could “crowd out” other forms of engagement and displace other conceptions of activism. Michael Maniates (2001) has argued that the rise of eco- and social labels is part of a dangerous move toward an “individualization of responsibility” for social and environmental problems. This individualization atrophies the collective efficacy of citizens and narrows their imaginations about how to achieve social change. If people believe they are doing their part to achieve social change through their purchases, they may feel less compelled to participate in protest, join social movement organizations, or push policy makers to enact strong regulation (see also Reich 2008). Moreover, if one sees individual acts of consumption as the key to social change, then the observation that not everyone is acting as a conscientious consumer may lead to scorn or resignation. This can lead environmentalists, for instance, to “heap disdain on those who do not . . . recycle or drive small cars or otherwise live sustainably” as opposed to building a strong, unified social movement (Maniates 2013, 261).
Relatedly, the rise of eco-labels may foster continued overconsumption and delude people into thinking that severe environmental problems can be solved without some degree of sacrifice by wealthy consumers (see Maniates and Meyer 2010). The message of much “green consumerism” is that we can minimize environmental damage not by consuming less but by consuming more (Dauvergne and Lister 2012; J. Johnston 2008). Josée Johnston (2008) argues that at the same time Whole Foods claims to promote environmental responsibility it undermines that goal by offering a cornucopia of choices for consumers while neglecting issues like food miles and consumption reduction, not to mention labor conditions in agricultural industries. Whole Foods shoppers seem to view the store mainly in consumerist terms, appreciating the aesthetics of the store and the variety of foods available more frequently than the environmental or social implications of the products (Johnston and Szabo 2011). Many environmental organizations have also aggressively adopted consumption-oriented narratives about change while muting their earlier messages about the dangers of overconsumption (see Bartley 2007a). As Peter Dauvergne and Jane Lister (2012) argue, eco-labeling, green marketing, and pleas for individuals to behave responsibly—the mainstays of the green consumerism industry—may deliver tiny successes but obscure alternative, more productive paths to change. Without a serious challenge to consumerism and poorly regulated capitalism—and the knotty, arduous, contentious, and collective efforts that this will require—it is difficult to see how major environmental challenges can be met.
More broadly, by turning to the market to fight for the good society, citizens may be turning away from democratic institutions that were built to handle such fights and are uniquely equipped to challenge powerful economic actors. It may be possible for consumer action to nudge markets here and there, but governments are uniquely able to mandate large-scale, systematic changes that last over time. State policy can translate the desires of citizens into binding law that forces companies to take actions they would otherwise avoid. In addition, state policy allows citizens to force themselves to take actions they believe in (from driving safely to supporting decent working conditions) but are tempted to shirk (Reich 2005). Of course, governments are not always willing to pass such policies, and regulations may be poorly enforced. Thus, significant social change requires the strengthening of democratic institutions and regulatory capacities. Anything less is, as Robert Reich (2008) puts it, “frolic and detour” (14).
Going further, some critics have charged that what appears to be conscientious consumption can actually be a retreat from social engagement altogether—that is, the construction of a “protective bubble” that shields wealthy consumers from danger. In Shopping Our Way to Safety, Andrew Szasz (2007) argues that consuming organic and “natural” products is, in essence, a desperate and defensive attempt to retreat from a world of environmental danger. As consumers construct an “inverted quarantine” to keep the unruly and dangerous world from affecting themselves and their families, they are turning inward and, in effect, giving up on creating society-wide solutions to environmental problems. While a traditional quarantine isolates a threat to protect the larger population, this “inverted quarantine” allows privileged individuals to isolate themselves from the larger threats—and the rest of the population. As Szasz argues, the recent rise of conscientious consumerism is in some ways analogous to the building of fallout shelters in the 1960s as a response, albeit a feeble one, to the threat of nuclear war. He also draws an important parallel to suburbanization and “white flight” over the past half century. To insulate themselves from so-called urban problems, affluent white residents have either fled to suburbs or strengthened social and physical barriers within cities to keep the “dangerous classes” away. The consequences for those who remained were clear: resources were depleted, and racial and economic segregation undermined the production of collective goods (like safety and education). By Szasz’s account, fleeing to the protection of organics may allow environmental problems to fester in much the same way. “Because people believe . . . that they are protected, they are less likely to feel an urge to voice support for the kinds of regulatory controls that would be needed to really address the hazard” (Szasz 2007, 226).
These critiques have exposed serious weaknesses in the ideology of conscientious consumerism—that is, the idea that the world can be “saved” through shopping. The implications of this ideology—that moral worth is defined by consumer choices and that consuming more is a solution to the world’s problems—are at best vapid and at worst extremely regressive. If adding morals to markets means promoting an ideology of conscientious consumerism, then we believe there is indeed a danger that the actions of conscientious consumers, whether to protect themselves or even to altruistically address larger problems, will undermine the possibilities for serious reform. In addition, as part 2 of this book shows, consumer concern has inspired a number of standard-setting initiatives in global industries, but most are too weak for the tasks that face them. Other ways of regulating global industries, including reinvigorated regulation by national states and international organizations, are clearly necessary.
Yet perhaps conscientious consumption does not need to contribute to the ideology of conscientious consumerism. John Connolly and Andrea Prothero (2008) found conscientious consumers to be enthusiastic but ultimately uncertain about the impacts of their choices. Perhaps this is the appropriate stance, given the many unanswered questions about the influence of different standards. And perhaps consumers who boycott or buycott are not so enamored with the idea as to dismiss other approaches, such as state regulation or even reduced consumption. If consumers can be mindful of the limitations of eco- and social labels, politically engaged in a variety of ways, and not overly self-satisfied about “saving” the world, perhaps conscientious consumption can escape some of the pitfalls described above.
Indeed, as discussed below, we believe that the political critiques of conscientious consumerism are important, but they do not entirely damn a project of conscientious consumption. The critiques identify serious potential dangers, but evidence suggests that these are not always as threatening as they seem. Instead of crowding out, for instance, there is evidence that conscientious consumption can sometimes be part of a repertoire of political engagement. Furthermore, although there are definitely ways that conscientious consumption reproduces social and economic inequalities, it can also be compatible with egalitarian agendas.
There is clearly a danger that the rise of conscientious consumerism could get in the way of other strategies of achieving social change. But there are two reasons to think that this danger is not as clear-cut as it initially seems. First, those who lament the turn to the market as a turn away from politics often invoke only disparaging images of market behavior and highly romanticized views of political engagement. Markets are not merely sites of self-interest seeking. Consumers frequently use purchases to express concerns for or connections with others (Willis and Schor 2012), and markets are often governed by moral codes that shape what consumers view as acceptable and unacceptable to buy or sell (C. Chan 2009; Zelizer 2013). Democratic politics, as Michael Schudson (2007) has pointed out, are usually based on narrow self-interest and are far from the welcoming beacon of egalitarian participation that critics of consumerism depict. Many of the same inequalities of participation that plague conscientious consumerism also plague more traditional types of political and civic engagement (Brady, Verba, and Schlozman 1995). Furthermore, traditional political engagement can be alienating for citizens, so it should not be so surprising that they are attracted to markets as a way to express their politics (Schudson 2007).
As Margaret Willis and Juliet Schor (2012) argue, a clearheaded analysis of conscientious consumerism must avoid the “essentialist trap” of viewing the market as the self-regarding site of the consumer and the state as the other-regarding site of the citizen. It must view “sites” such as markets and politics as distinct from the “practices” that occur within them (see also Bowles and Gintis 2012 [1986]). The practice of consumption can be used to express political or ethical principles, even if markets as a whole—or the ideology of consumerism as a whole—are not dominated by this logic. We agree that consumption practices can potentially be meaningful forms of political expression. On the other hand, it is important to keep the logic and limitations of different sites in mind. We see institutions of democracy as on the whole better suited than those of the market to host struggles to achieve common goods (Reich 2008). It is unclear, for instance, whether markets alone could ever be molded to reduce inequality to the same extent that the redistributive powers of the state can.
The second reason to believe that the crowding-out critique is overstated is that the evidence that exists, fragmentary as it is, points largely in the opposite direction, at least when it comes to individual patterns of engagement at a given moment. In the analysis of survey data, researchers have consistently found that individuals who engage in conscientious consumption are more likely than others to be politically engaged in other ways as well. In a survey of university students in Canada, Belgium, and Sweden, Dietland Stolle and her colleagues (2005) found that conscientious consumers are more likely than others to attend protests or demonstrations and to be members of “checkbook-like” voluntary associations (that is, those in which members primarily participate by donating money). They are no different from others in terms of more conventional forms of political engagement: membership in political parties, participation in student elections, or contacts with officials. But importantly, “there is not a single significant negative relation with other forms of political participation” (260), suggesting that conscientious consumers are not feeling so satisfied with themselves as to opt out of political engagement. In our own survey of Indiana University students, we found that students who recently had engaged in buycotting were slightly more likely than others to have participated in protest at some point, even holding their political views and a number of other factors constant. Those who had buycotted also had significantly less individualistic attitudes—in other words, they were less in agreement with the statement that “in our society, everyone must look out for him/herself. It is of little use to unite with others to fight for one’s goals.”8
These results are consistent with the view that conscientious consumption can be part of a repertoire of political engagement. Indeed, the students surveyed by Stolle and her colleagues saw voting and volunteering as more influential than consumption choices, and the conscientious consumers among them “seem to be quite realistic about the potential effectiveness of this participation instrument; it is an addition . . . and does not replace more conventional participation acts” (Stolle, Hooghe, and Micheletti 2005, 262; emphasis in original). Similarly, in our survey, students who had purchased a product labeled as environmentally friendly were more likely than others to perceive voting for an elected official as an effective way to promote environmental change, even controlling for environmental attitudes.
In larger, more representative samples, researchers have similarly found that conscientious consumerism and political engagement are sometimes positively correlated and never negatively correlated. As discussed in chapter 1, across a number of European countries individuals’ sense of political efficacy and their interest in politics shape their likelihood of buycotting and boycotting. Lisa Neilson and Pamela Paxton (2010), working with similar data, find evidence that involvement in a voluntary association is a strong predictor of boycotting and buycotting. Although these studies seek to explain why people boycott/buycott rather than the consequences of doing so, their findings contradict simple images of self-satisfied conscientious consumers opting out of other forms of engagement. More pointedly, Willis and Schor (2012) find that for American adults in general, boycotting and buycotting are associated with higher degrees of political engagement. In a separate survey of those already sensitized to conscientious consumption, the researchers found that those who were more engaged as consumers were also more engaged as citizens. Directly responding to the critiques discussed above, they argue that “self-interest, as in the sense of attempts to protect personal health or the quality of products that one consumes, and public interest, such as trying to reduce environmental impact or support workers, do not appear to be mutually exclusive motivations” (180).
In addition to this large-scale survey evidence, studies have found synergies between consumption and politics within particular communities. Brian Obach and Kathleen Tobin (2013) surveyed a sample of “civic agriculture participants” in upstate New York (made up of Community-Supported Agriculture [CSA] members, farmers market patrons, and health food store shoppers) and compared this to a sample drawn from the general population in the same communities. Those involved in civic agriculture were far more likely than others to report a variety of political and civic engagements, including participating in political demonstrations (24 percent compared to 9 percent), being interested in politics (82 percent vs. 57 percent), attending a political meeting (43 percent vs. 21 percent), and volunteering (71 percent vs. 48 percent). Even the health food store shoppers, who were not necessarily strongly committed to environmental goals, were in many respects not so different from the more committed CSA members. In a study of a local organic food cooperative in the UK, Gill Seyfang (2006) found that 75 percent of customers cited health as a reason for purchasing the food, but environmental issues and localism were not far behind, at 70 percent and 65 percent respectively. It seems that at least within some communities of relatively committed consumers, individuals are not as easily distracted or deluded as many critiques suggest. Many environmental activists, for instance, criticize green consumption and discount its potential as a strategy for social change but nevertheless participate in it (Connolly and Prothero 2008).
Still, the existing evidence is only partial, and it does reveal some segments of consumers that act more as the critics predict. In our survey of Indiana University students, we found that nearly a quarter were so enthusiastic about recycling bottles and cans that they rated it as having a greater environmental impact than having not used those bottles and cans in the first place. Nearly 10 percent rated the environmental benefits of using eco-labeled products as higher than not buying those products in the first place. The argument that easy, market-friendly environmentalism may be confusing consumers and feeding overconsumption does receive some support from observations like these. Some do see more consumption, not less, as a pro-environmental solution. In addition, even among more committed conscientious consumers, being a good consumer sometimes serves as a rationale for not doing other things. Take the individuals who work with Traidcraft, a fair trade organization in the UK that sells coffee, chocolate, crafts, and other items, not only through world shops but through churches and other social networks. As described by Nick Clarke and his colleagues (2007), these individuals are socially engaged practitioners working collectively, not atomized consumers. On the other hand, in interviews with Clarke and his fellow researchers, some explicitly used this activity as a rationale for not participating in political activism. One explained that she was not involved in a public campaign that Traidcraft and others were sponsoring
because I felt I supported it in other ways, through supporting fair trade . . . I admire all these young people who . . . go out and do things and go out and help in a crisis. . . . I’m not the sort of person, I wouldn’t feel brave enough to do it myself, I would rather help in other ways. (qtd. in Clarke et al. 2007, 599)
Another described her fair trade work as political action, yet said:
In the actual taking action, going out on the streets and going to rallies, that type of thing, and meetings as to what are we going to do, how are we going to approach this campaign, I don’t go to the campaign meetings and I don’t go out on the demos . . . I mean I’d love to, I’d love to but I don’t have time. So on the practical side I feel I’m there to provide the stock, provide myself if that’s required, and provide information if they want it, or I can point them in the direction to go. (599)
Perhaps these two people are unlikely to “hit the streets” for other reasons, but their statements make it clear that their work with Traidcraft is not having the kind of “cognitive liberation” effect that social movement scholars have identified as central to becoming a committed activist (McAdam 1982).
Ultimately the question of how conscientious consumption shapes other political views and activities will have to be addressed by looking at individuals and political institutions over time. The evidence for the repertoire view is convincing, but it only looks at individuals at a given point in time. It is possible that people who conscientiously consume also report substantial political engagements, as the existing evidence shows, but that consumer activities expand and political activities subsequently contract. In other words, the crowding-out effect could take hold as individuals progress through their lives or as larger historical changes shape the distribution of different forms of engagement.
If one cares not only about environmental protection or charity but also about promoting an egalitarian social order, then the logic of “one dollar, one vote” and the status dynamics of conscientious consumerism are indeed troubling. In our view an egalitarian agenda must be part of meaningful social change. Questions about the distribution of rights and privileges should be at the center of both how we evaluate consumer actions and how we understand the impacts of production standards (as in part 2 of this book).
Yet it would be wrong to dismiss conscientious consumption as necessarily inegalitarian. Not all forms of conscientious consumption are especially costly. Take the consumption of beef. Producing beef demands huge inputs of grain (and thus of water and land), contributes to pollution by factory farms, arguably distorts global grain markets, and in some regions of the world drives the destruction of natural forests as they are converted to cattle pasture or land to grow grain. A conscientious consumer might respond by paying more for local, grass-fed beef or other “sustainable” beef. But a conscientious consumer could also respond by simply eating less beef. Dietary substitutes such as beans and other legumes are typically much less expensive. Furthermore, consumers who boycott a particular product or brand can often find substitutes at similar price levels (Sandịkcị and Ekici 2009). To be sure, higher incomes will give consumers more options for expressing their values through their purchases, but it is a mistake to equate conscientious consumption with conspicuous consumption. Conscientious consumption may also be consistent with a rejection of consumerism—that is, a weakening of the link between consumer goods and one’s conception of a good life—that helps consumers save money. In a few instances, at least, local food initiatives are becoming well integrated into low-income communities (Hinrichs and Kremer 2002; Johnston and Baker 2005). Symbolic boundaries are not easily erased, but some advocates of conscientious consumption are working to blur them.
On the whole the problem of conspicuous consumption, exclusionary symbolic boundaries, and status-oriented consumption seems to be more a problem of consumerism in general than of conscientious consumption in particular. We can see why critics would seize on the hypocrisy of status-driven, exclusionary behavior in supposed pursuit of fairness and sustainability. The LOHAS (“lifestyles of health and sustainability,” as mentioned in the introduction) marketing industry provides plenty of fodder for status competition and for critique. But is conscientious consumption really more unequal and stratifying than consumerism in general? We suspect that status-driven and exclusionary consumer behavior is at least as widespread, if not more so, in the larger market, where consumers mark their status through luxury brands, homes, and cars. As Robert Frank (2010) has argued, consumerism in an era of rising wealth inequality has led standards for high-quality, high-status objects to keep ratcheting up, chasing the lifestyles of the ultra-wealthy. The most consequential status distinctions and expenditures of cultural capital have nothing to do with fair trade, organic, or sustainable forms of production; they have to do with elite education; family wealth; and durable race, class, and gender hierarchies. Our point is not to minimize exclusionary tendencies in the world of conscientious consumption, but they must be evaluated in context.
The key for both scholarship and practice, we believe, is to reject the ideology of conscientious consumerism and its suggestion that the world can be “saved” through shopping. This ideology reproduces inequality and obscures other, more meaningful pathways to social change. Yet specific practices of conscientious consumption can vary in their compatibility with egalitarianism, in their symbolic meanings, and in their political implications.
As part 2 of this book shows, practices of conscientious consumption also vary in their consequences “on the ground” at the point of production. Ultimately the assessment of conscientious consumption depends in large part on its practical consequences. How much difference does it make if consumers support fair trade in agriculture or sustainable forestry practices? What has consumer concern about sweatshops meant for labor conditions in the global apparel industry? What are the consequences when consumers are not conscientious—that is, when they do not reflect much on the consequences of their purchases? To a startling degree, debates about the dilemmas of conscientious consumerism have proceeded without really addressing these questions. It is this huge oversight that we attempt to remedy in the next part of this book.