Since the day I was born, baseball has been my best friend. Before I was even a year old, I could be pictured holding a bat, wearing a backwards hat far too big and rocking a giant toothless smile. Fast forward 21 years and the game is still by my side – so, you’re probably not surprised that as a baseball player, I wear hats. Truthfully, hats mess up my curls and give me the worst hair days – yet simultaneously, they represent all the identities I’ve amassed thus far in my life.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, the “melting pot” was my home. That pot was seasoned with every ethnicity, culture, profession, religion, hobby and form of entertainment that you could imagine. Everyone I met growing up had wildly intriguing stories. They resembled puzzles beautifully assembled with pieces that shouldn’t fit together. My family threw me into every possible experience. I was a sponge and they waited to see what I’d soak up. As a result, I am a Black Christian man, entrenched in the arts community, painting and making music. I waded knee-deep in the business world, starting an eyewear company with my best friend. I’m immersed in fashion all while maintaining my identity as a student and athlete. These identities are very different but I’m the commonality. My identities are fluid and intertwined; each is a different hat.
Having so many hats makes it difficult deciding what to wear and when. Attending New York City private schools meant I was one of maybe 10 Black kids in my grade, which was not easy. I struggled to find strength in my Blackness as a young boy when everyone around me was white. Girls didn’t like me. Kids and teachers made racist comments. Administrations asked me to lead tours and take photos for pamphlets. I would be lying if I said my younger self never thought “Life would be so much easier if I was white.” I’ll bet most Black kids who attended predominantly white institutions experienced that thought at some point. I became acutely aware of stereotypes associated with my Blackness. However, as I grew older, I learned that even though I couldn’t take my melanated hat off, it was the coolest one I’d ever have anyway. I wear it proudly wherever I go.
Figuring out when to wear the other hats proven to be trickier. For a while, I felt as if I was always wearing the wrong hat for the wrong occasion. On the field, I was a creative looking at athletes like jocks. At galleries, I was an athlete out of his realm. In the classroom, I was an artist bored by business and an athlete who hoped to never work a 9-to-5.
So, in an attempt to alleviate this discomfort, I chose to chain each hat to its respective location. Baseball Channing lived at the field, and only at the field. When I went to class, I abandoned my athlete backpack, didn’t wear any USC baseball gear and never mentioned I was an athlete. I left the creative Channing in my room when I entered the locker room, disregarding all artistic thoughts. Being Black came with enough assumptions – why would I want to give another reason for people to look at me as an outsider? I thought I could at least minimize stereotypes by controlling which identity I showed people.
Eventually, I got swept up in an inescapable tornado. Each individual identity swirled further and further away from me. By neglecting each part of me, I was losing my individual identity.
Baseball became monotonous, art felt forced and school felt like a waste of time. In reality, one of those identities alone couldn’t possibly equal 100% of me. What made me, me, was the sum of my parts.
Showing up in white spaces as a Black person, in creative circles as an athlete, and on the field as an artist made me unique. The combination of my identities made my voice intriguing. As I accepted this truth, I realized being different is amazing; and that I am not responsible for the perceptions people project onto me. So, all I can do is wear all my hats at once, each as proudly as I wear my Blackness.
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