Childhood

Whitby was born in the midsummer heat of Mississippi, where he was raised in his early years with his two sisters up until his father's death. He was 8 years old when the loss prompted his family's migration North, settling down in Harlem, New York. None of them anticipated the sheer size and force of folks that would follow the same route, nor the rise of political movements and justice seekers the young man would be surrounded by. It was there that Whitby was immersed in a world of culture and art, and he quickly fell in love with the vibrant life and people surrounding him. His misadventures as a boy lead him to dream of becoming a famous musician.

Adulthood

By the age of 20 Whitby decided it was time for him to set off in pursuit of his dream. He'd played and learned from the masters locally, and enough late nights and chapped and bleeding lips had lead him to believe he had enough talent and skill to start his new career. His mother worked overtime to support this goal, scraping together every penny and dime she could charm out of the diner's patrons. Weeks like this went by until she and the local community could pool enough money to get Whitby his own instrument and send him off. Armed with the confidence and love of his family and friends, his new saxophone, and a small satchel of belongings, the young man headed off with hopes as high as his ambitions.

Trigger-warning: Racism and related violence (not graphic)

Unfortunately the fairy-tale story ended there. Whitby had hoped to strike it big in the heart of the city, but every gig he tried to land was met with harsh opposition; the most popular night clubs were clearly marked as "white-only establishments," and any attempts to circumvent such backwards policies proved incredibly dangerous. He managed to book nights in the few black-friendly stages, but competition was fierce: there were more performers than nights, and more nights than money to sustain them. Whitby was burning through his money quick, forced to take up any job he could find or give up and return home.

Over the course of the next year and a half his pride and optimism was slowly whittled away. It was in the heart of his despair that he heard a familiar song playing from one of the exclusive clubs that had refused him countless times... his song. Heartbroken he pushed past the doormen he shouted across the room, rightfully accusing the playing musician of his thievery... but the gasps from the patrons were not because they were shocked by the injustice. Whitby was forcibly removed, and the night ended brutally-- fearing for his life Whitby was given no choice but to flee not only the block, but the entire city.

Whitby hopped the first train leaving the station with nothing more than the clothes on his back. His prized saxophone was in shambles, dented and broken like his dreams. The only item he had left to his name was the old harmonica he kept in his pocket, a sentimental memento more than anything. The train rolled into a Georgia station, where, penniless and disparaged, Whitby couldn't fathom the idea of going home a failure. Instead, he wandered until he found himself standing at a crossroads. It was there that the strangest thing happened... an old ham radio sat laying in the grass, speaking out to him unprompted. The voice weaved a wonderful and intimate tale, promising a place where "no one sees color" where everyone was equal... Though the offer was inherently problematic in its own way, Whitby wanted nothing more than to fade from existence-- the idea of being unseen and equal sounded better than being outcast, or worse... he accepted the stranger's deal, not realizing the price of his agreement.

Before he knew it he was waking in a field, groggy lids rising to stare at a strange looking bee buzzing near a couple of sprouted flowers, while a rabbit with antlers wide-eyed stared at him warily from a distance. To his right stood a tall, gnarled looking man in a striped suit... "Say Pal," he took a long drag of his cigar, smiling fondly as he breathed out the rest of his statement in a puff of smoke: "You don't look so good."