Making a Real Difference in the World

by August Harp

Sitting at my desk, I eagerly watch the second-hand slowly wind around the clock for the last time of the school year. It feels as if these 60 seconds are lasting an eternity. I check my phone. I have a text from Darby, “Aye bruh u still tryna hoop after school?” I quickly respond, “Yea bring yo brothers I think Zizi and Kev comin too.”
 
I have been waiting for this all week. After school, the plan is to meet at the lobby of the school, then walk to my house to play basketball. I look back to the clock. Thirty more seconds, then I’m done with school. The room begins to buzz with excited conversation. Everyone is now standing up, bags slung lazily over each student’s shoulder as if to say “I don’t need this anymore.” I nervously glance back up at the clock worried that if I look at the clock too long, it will begin to count backwards. Fifteen more seconds. For 15 grueling seconds I tap my fingers against the desk quietly in anticipation until finally the bell rings.
         
I jump up and rush through the crowd of students into the school lobby where Rahzizi and Kevin are waiting. “Let’s go, Darby is gonna meet us at my house,” I say. As we walk out of school for the last time of my sophomore year, I hear my phone ring. I check my phone and see I have a message from Jamil; it reads, “What time is the pizza party tonight?”

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I had completely forgotten about the pizza party for the Mississippi Youth Media Project I would be attending over the summer. “Is that tonight?” I asked Jamil, who instantly responds that it is. “Aye ya’ll, I can’t go. I gotta go to this thing downtown,” I tell Kevin and Rahzizi who are walking with me. Kevin tells me that they are gonna head to the MBA to hoop and that I should come if I get done early. I sigh, “Doubt it” I say, “I’m probably gonna have to stay there, but OK.”
 
My mother picks me up at my house and takes me downtown. I walk in and press the button for the elevator. “Thirteen floors up to the end of my summer,” I think to myself. The elevator doors open, and I slowly walk out.
         
When I see the room, my mood begins to change. The then-bare room has multiple rooms, each with windows overlooking downtown. I finally begin to see the significance of being able to have an opportunity to make this beautiful space our own. I see some familiar faces, but the majority of the crowd consists of young people I have never seen before. As we introduce ourselves, I realize the diversity present among our group. Not only are we different races, but each person seems to attend a totally different school. Northwest Rankin, Jim Hill, Ridgeland, Wingfield, Clinton. Each individual teen seems to come from another world. This is what the YMP is all about: Everyone brings their own perspective to the table.
         
Three weeks later, the previously bare room is hardly recognizable. There are posters, desks, carpets, whiteboards, window markers, Macs, and even a Michael Jordan jersey hanging on the wall. However, the real beauty of this project lies within its workers. Each person’s opinion is respected and taken seriously. And despite our being separated into three houses—writing, video/photography and podcast—we frequently come together and pitch each other new ideas.
 
We are 13 floors up doing things that I did not think were possible at my age. We are making a real difference in the world, and that is what the Youth Media Project is all about.