Japan Center Essay Competition Sponsored by Canon U.S.A.

The aim of the JCSB essay competition is to provide young Americans with an opportunity to think creatively and critically about their lives by relating them to some aspect of Japan to help them broaden their horizons and develop global citizenship.  

Contestants should write, in English, one or more aspects of Japan  including art, culture, tradition, values, philosophy, history, society, politics, business, and technology in relation to their personal views, experiences, and/or future goals. (Contestants do not need to have any experience in visiting Japan or studying Japanese. 

20th Essay Competition

Photo gallery ;   SBU News   

Sponsor: Canon U.S.A.     

Rules and Procedures

FAQs 

Rubric 

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Winners

High School Division Best Essay Award

1st Place Best Essay Award and Consul General of Japan Special Award

“Daijoubu: Powerful Call for Unity” by Kazushi Kousaka (Choate Rosemary Hall)

2nd Place Best Essay Award

“Between Water and Stone: A Journey of Ritual and Reflection” by Amin Nasari (Hicksville High School)

3rd Place Best Essay Award

“Echoes from Hibakusha” by Erika Kawakami (Jericho High School)

College Division Best Essay Award

“Amaterasu’s Mirror of Ecstasy: A Brief Encounter with Japanese Shamanism and Shintoism” by Naomi Kirkup (Stony Brook University)

Uchida Memorial Award

“Embracing Half-Moon Cookies” by Skyler Ogonowski (Rocky Point High School)

Special Award (Alphabetically ordered by family name)

“The Show That Turned My Dreams into Reality” by Afnan Joarder (The Bronx High School of Science)

“Between The Folds: The Life Lessons Found in Origami” by Wynn Ng (Stony Brook University)

“Shinobu: A Story of Perseverance” by Siena Ruske (Bronx High School of Science)

Finalists (Alphabetically ordered by family name)

Afnan Joarder (The Bronx High School of Science)

Erika Kawakami (Jericho High School)

Naomi Kirkup (Stony Brook University)

Kazushi Kousaka (Choate Rosemary Hall)

Teresa Li (Stony Brook University)

Amin Nasari (Hicksville High School)

Wynn Ng (Stony Brook University)

Skyler Ogonowski (Rocky Point High School)

Siena Ruske (Bronx High School of Science)

Gabe Sidel (The Bronx High School of Science)

Christine Woods (The Bronx High School of Science)

Semi-finalists (Alphabetically ordered by family name)

Geneva Bhagroo (Stony Brook University)

Leah Chong (Stony Brook University)

Kira Cruz (Liberty University Online Academy)

Rebecca Gabrielsen (Stony Brook University)

Afnan Joarder (The Bronx High School of Science)

Naomi Kirkup (Stony Brook University)

Chiho Kakita (Stony Brook University)

Erika Kawakami (Jericho High School)

Kazushi Kousaka (Choate Rosemary Hall)

Kaci Leonard (Stony Brook University)

Teresa Li (Stony Brook University)

Madison Lin (Syosset High School)

Sanjukta Mahata (Stony Brook University)

Arya Modi (High School West)

Shaila Moulee (Stony Brook University)

Kina Nagasaki (The Bronx High School of Science)

Ryan Nakatani (Brooklyn Technical High School)

Amin Nasari (Hicksville High School)

Wynn Ng (Stony Brook University)

Skyler Ogonowski (Rocky Point High School)

Mauli Patel (Stony Brook University)

Samaira Pawa (Stony Brook University)

Azn Pineda (Elwood John Glenn High School)

Shanell Rollon (Stony Brook University)

Siena Ruske (Bronx High School of Science)

Emi Shimada (Stuyvesant High School)

Gabe Sidel (The Bronx High School of Science)

Donna Snyder (Hofstra University)

Sofia Tibaldi (Mepham High School)

Kaitlyn Toy (The Bronx High School of Science)

Carrie Wang (Stony Brook University)

Christine Woods (The Bronx High School of Science)

Zonglin Wu (Stony Brook University)

Fiona Zhuo (Stony Brook University)

Selected Essays

1st Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division and

Consul General of Japan Special Award

“Daijoubu: Powerful Call for Unity”

by Kazushi Kousaka (Choate Rosemary Hall)

Even from a seated crash position, I could see the orange glow outside my window. After a winter vacation in Hokkaido, I was flying to Tokyo to catch my connecting flight back to New York. The flight had been full but uneventful until we touched down in Haneda, when a sudden, jarring bang shook us. The cabin turned pitch dark, yellow lights spun on the overhead panel, and there were screams from the passengers next to me and the aisles behind.

Although the smoke and its stench began to fill the cabin, the flight attendants refused to panic. With resolute composure, they urged us to stay calm and cover our mouths. “Daijoubu desu," they repeated, trying to assure us that somehow we would be alright. Amid the growing chaos, their tone inspired us to follow suit and collect ourselves as we waited in tense, controlled silence for further instructions.

After five agonizing minutes, the doors of the cabin suddenly opened. Flight attendants told us to leave our luggage behind and walk briskly to the nearest exit. But confusion spread as some passengers, unable to understand the Japanese instructions, scrambled for their belongings from the overhead bins, creating bottlenecks. Then I witnessed a remarkable thing: strangers explained– in gestures– to the obstructors that their bags had to be left behind. Others helped the elderly and the children to reach the exits faster, pausing to assist those in need. No one bolted or panicked. Instead, people listened and moved forward in an orderly fashion. What could have been a deadly stampede became a miracle of calm and speed. I got off the plane in less than a minute and jumped on the slide to the runway.

Once on flat ground, it was cold and windy. Turning to face the plane, I saw its back half engulfed in flames. We sprinted away from the burning plane, hearts racing, expecting an explosion. As the last people evacuated, the flight attendants grouped us in clusters of ten to get a head count. Once satisfied that everyone was accounted for, they led us from the field to an asphalt road to wait for buses to the terminal. With coats and everything left in the plane, we stood there, shivering, for twenty minutes; it was then that I noticed additional acts of kindness. Strangers handed their sweaters to older passengers and children, and consoled each other for the things they’d left onboard. Despite the madness of the situation, there was a sense of order and profound solidarity.

After hours of waiting and filling in forms at the terminal, we were finally let go. Without my passport, my aunt kindly offered us shelter until we figured out how to get back to New York. When we got to her place, still reeking of smoke, we learned what had happened on the tarmac. Shortly after we landed, our large plane hit a freight plane that, tragically, entered the wrong runway. The impact caused an instant fireball, killing all five people on the freight plane. Making the horror worse, those five people were on a mission of mercy: they were flying aid to the Noto Peninsula, where an earthquake had devastated hundreds of homes.

That night, as I lay awake processing the day's events, I was overwhelmed by a mix of panic and anxiety, but also a deep sense of appreciation. Against all odds, we had escaped a plane ablaze, alive. As ‘Daijoubu’– ”it’s alright”– echoed in my mind, a phrase that kept us calm and called for unity, I thought about the remarkable kindness of all the strangers I’d met. From the flight attendants, who were brilliant under pressure, calm and efficient to the strangers who helped each other, and walked, not ran, to the exits– it was all stunning and hopeful.

In Japan, where respect and consideration for others run deep, I witnessed firsthand how even life-or-death situations can be met with selflessness, calm and order. As a Japanese-American, these are values I've always subconsciously appreciated, shaped by years of attending Japanese Saturday school and growing up in a Japanese household. Nonetheless, this experience deeply impressed upon me their importance in my own identity and perspective. It left me with a renewed faith in the power of cooperation and a deep sense of pride in my Japanese heritage. Above all, it was a powerful reminder that when we act with collective responsibility– supporting and uplifting others– we do right by ourselves.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

2nd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“Between Water and Stone: A Journey of Ritual and Reflection”

by Amin Nasari (Hicksville High School)

The first time I wandered into the Morikami Museum and Japanese Gardens in Florida, I wasn’t searching for answers. It was spring break, and I had promised myself I would finish my Islamic theology final paper before heading to the beach with my family. Instead, I found myself escaping the fluorescent lights of the library in favor of open air. I didn’t expect to stay long – just a quick walk to clear my head. But the sound of water drew me in, and soon I found myself standing before a tsukubai, a stone basin with a bamboo spout gently trickling water.

Visitors paused here, washing their hands in a ritual I later learned was called temizu, a Shinto practice of purification before entering sacred spaces. I watched them, and instinctively thought of wudu, the Islamic ablution I perform before each prayer. At first, the connection felt superficial – water as a shared element of cleansing – but the more I stood there, the more I realized this wasn’t just about water. It was about intention, about preparing oneself to stand before something greater.

That moment didn’t teach me something new; it reminded me of what I already knew. Growing up, wudu was a practical habit I rarely thought deeply about. But as I got older, I began to see it as something more – a way to step out of the ordinary and align myself with a sense of purpose. Watching others perform a similar ritual in this garden didn’t feel foreign; it felt familiar. It reminded me that across cultures, we share this impulse to ground ourselves, to prepare body and mind for moments of significance.

As I began to visit the garden more often, its quiet beauty became a space for reflection rather than escape. I noticed parallels I had overlooked in my own life. The garden’s design – its interplay of lush plants and carefully placed rocks, stillness and movement – mirrored how I’ve learned to think about balance. In my faith, there’s a constant tension between striving for perfection and accepting imperfection. Islam teaches that only Allah is perfect, and our flaws are opportunities for growth. Yet I’ve often struggled to embrace this, treating mistakes as failures rather than stepping stones.

It was here, amidst the irregular patterns of moss on stone and the uneven flow of water, that a sign near the garden path caught my attention. It described the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi – the appreciation of imperfection and impermanence. At first, the idea felt at odds with my drive for self-improvement. But as I stood there, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the garden, I began to understand. Wabi-sabi wasn’t about settling for less; it was about finding beauty in the process, in the flaws that make us human. In a strange way, it echoed what my faith had been telling me all along: that imperfection is not an obstacle to growth, but its starting point.

The garden also brought me back to nature in a way I hadn’t experienced since childhood. My father used to take me hiking, pausing to point out how the curves of a river or the shade of a tree felt like signs of something greater. Islam teaches that nature is filled with ayat, or signs of Allah’s presence – a reminder to look closer and think deeper. In the garden, I felt this again, not as a lesson being taught but as something instinctive. The Japanese idea of kami – spiritual essences found in natural elements – felt strikingly similar. Both traditions seemed to be saying the same thing: that the natural world isn’t just something to admire, but something to learn from.

Looking back, my visits to the garden didn’t give me new answers; they helped me rediscover the ones I already carried. The act of stepping away from my books and into that space wasn’t about distraction. It was about making room for reflection, about seeing my own life through a new lens. What began as a small detour became a reminder that we are all searching for the same things: peace, balance, connection.

Now, when I think about that first visit, it feels less like a coincidence and more like a nudge. Not from the garden itself, but from my own need to pause and reflect. It reminded me that the paths we walk – whether through a mosque, a forest, or a Japanese garden – all lead us back to the same truths, if we’re willing to stop and notice.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

3rd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“Echoes from Hibakusha”

by Erika Kawakami (Jericho High School)

A young boy was glaring directly at me from a monochrome photograph on the wall. The skin around his face looked molten, hanging from what had been his chin, as if someone had held a blowtorch over his head and let his body melt. His clothes were tattered, almost molding into his arms. Debris penetrated his upper arm and torso.

As I entered and walked through the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, within blocks of the atomic bomb’s Ground Zero in the city where my great grandparents lived during World War II, I allowed the photographs of mangled buildings and people to imprint themselves into my consciousness. Each image revealed pain, loss, and, in some cases, survival. It was as if the walls of the museum were echoing with the collective voices of those who had suffered and perished, urging us never to forget the horrors of war and the need for peace. I was reminded of my great grandfather’s stories from when he fought for Japan during World War II; the stories passed down from generation to generation, finally reaching me. 

In 1945, on the day the Little Boy was dropped on Hiroshima, he was in the basement of the Mitsubishi Building and miraculously avoided injury. He told stories of how he brought water to the thirsty and wounded people and how he witnessed many of these people holding out their arms with skin dangling loosely. “No more war,” my great grandfather said at the age of 96, before he passed away, “War doesn’t solve problems.”

Heavily influenced by my great grandfather’s resilience and fervor for the eradication of war, I delved deeper into the history of the atomic bombing. Determined to educate myself on the harms of war that I had heard from my family in Hiroshima every summer, to sympathize with those affected, and to somehow advocate for change in how diplomatic strife is handled, I embarked on a National History Day project focusing on the atomic bombings in Japan.

During my research journey, I read Hiroshima by John Hersey, which opened my eyes to the true perspectives of the survivors and their lesser known plights following the atomic bombing. Nakamura-san, one of the six characters whose stories were told throughout the book, was one of the thousands of survivors of the Hiroshima bombing who was affected by radiation illness for years. Mr. Tanimoto’s daughter was harshly judged by doctors and was forbidden to marry the man she fell in love with because his father believed she could not have normal children.

Astonished by the discrimination and hardships the atomic bomb survivors (hibakusha) faced, I investigated how this mistreatment came to be. By scouring through interviews with atomic bomb survivors and discussing with family members in Hiroshima, I came across a social phenomenon in Japan called Nihonjinron: Japanese nationalism. This sense of nationalism provoked Japanese society to ostracize hibakusha who strayed from stereotypical Japanese norms and appearances, whether it be for their changed physical features, newly acquired disabilities, mental disorders, or their trauma. The effects of the atomic bomb not only killed people and destroyed tangible parts of society, but it also destroyed the survivors’ hopes, dreams, and futures. Learning about the plight of the hibakusha changed how I view the world today.

I realized that post-World War II, hibakusha were faced with many great challenges. They were barred from marriage, as Mr. Tanimoto’s daughter was, because people thought that they carried bad fortune. They were mocked for their deformed looks, as the wounds and keloids altered features of their bodies. Hibakusha women were prevented from having children due to the irrational fear of having diseased or deformed babies. Despite this, they formed stable communities among themselves as beacons of hope and support, believing that one day they would be treated as equals in society.

Learning about how hibakusha prevailed despite having such deeply ingrained cultural prejudices against them inspired me in a plethora of ways: I became more active in advocacy for social justice by joining the Hiroshima for Global Peace organization; I became more aware of humanitarian values and the importance of maintaining peace and cooperation with others, and most importantly, I became more proactive about promoting public awareness.

Today, the generation of Hibakusha is gradually diminishing, but I deeply feel that we are obligated to pass the story of Hiroshima to the world, as well as to the younger generations to come. It is always our highest priority to promote world peace.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

Best Essay Award in the College Division

“Amaterasu’s Mirror of Ecstasy: A Brief Encounter with Japanese Shamanism and Shintoism”

by Naomi Kirkup (Stony Brook University)

Everybody is subject to time, and realizing this is a significant part of growing up; you will inevitably die. This understanding of mortality and impermanence only deepens with age. For example, we recognize and anticipate phenomena like midlife crises and “senioritis” as manifestations of realizations that can be unsettling or depressing. The true roots of such problems lie in existential questions, which often go unanswered deep within the soul.

            In anticipation of my graduation in May, I have found myself reflecting on the purpose of my life. I had explored so much philosophy and read numerous religious texts from diverse traditions, devouring knowledge gluttonously, yet I wasn’t satisfied. At the close of the fall semester, some truly brilliant philosophers inspired me to actualize my knowledge. “Faith without works is dead” (James 2:24).

            My academic specialization is Sufism, a term denoting Muslims who simply love God, with a particular emphasis on the idea that the relationship between the many and the One is one of similarity, while never forgetting His incomparability. One compelling Sufi perspective is that different religions are ultimately compatible. I believe that various religions address the same truths in different terms and were sent by God through His prophets to their respective communities.

“And We sent not a Messenger except with the language of his people, in order that he might make (the Message) clear for them. Then Allah misleads whom He wills and guides whom He wills. And He is the All-Mighty, the All-Wise.” (Quran 14:4)

            Because of this perspective, I am free to explore other religions, a pursuit I am deeply passionate about. Thus, my recent interest in Japanese Shamanism and Shintoism did not come as a surprise, but it has now become more than just a passing curiosity. The philosophies and myths I have encountered in Shinto texts, such as the Kojiki, are profoundly relevant to both my daily religious practice and my academic pursuits. Ultimately, my study of Shintoism and Japanese Shamanism has reinforced my own beliefs while introducing me to new perspectives—ones I will undoubtedly continue to explore until exhaustion.

            In my current research on the Sufi concept of “intoxication” and the Bhakti (Devotion) Movement in India, I have observed that both emphasize the voluntary annihilation of the ego through devotionally oriented religious praxis. The most striking similarity between Shamanism and Sufism, in my view, can be found in the Japanese concept of “ecstasy.” Ecstasy is at the very core of Shamanism, while Sufis became known for being “intoxicated” with love for God. In various Japanese traditions, ecstasy refers to the practice of unification and the state of Unity in relation to the Divine and the earthly. It can mean either becoming possessed by a god or ascending to their level, resulting in pure ecstasy, bliss, and existence.

            In the Kojiki (Records of Ancient Matters), which is regarded as one of, if not the most, important works of Japanese literature, the foundation of ecstasy is established. In Book One, Section Sixteen, during a matsuri (a ritual to worship and invite a deity), the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu, had hidden Herself—Light—away in a cave. This imagery of the separation between light and darkness is present in many religious texts, but it is particularly emphasized by the Sufis.

            I interpret this myth as a reflection of our embodied existence—God (the Light, Existence, etc.) has separated us from Himself, leaving us in darkness (non-existence, ignorance). This state is not ideal—we need light to see the physical world, but we also need Light to perceive the Heavenly realm.

To bring the world out of darkness, the myriad deities held a matsuri to respectfully approach Amaterasu in a way that pleased Her. This mirrors my own approach to God through religious practice. One might call it beautification, as it is a common theological concept that God loves beauty. Sufis often cite a Hadith in this context: “He is beautiful, and He loves beauty.”

Ultimately, it was not the songs, dances, or jewels that caught Amaterasu’s attention but rather a mirror, which Ishikori-dome no Mikoto polished. The only thing as beautiful and worthy of Her gaze was Herself. Likewise, religious practice serves to beautify us in preparation for the hereafter, an idea reflected in the imagery of Amaterasu stepping out into Her own light. The passage about the mirror in the Kojiki bears a striking resemblance to the metaphors of Sufi philosophers—particularly Ibn al-`Arabî, Rūmī, and Al-Ghazālī—who describe the heart as a piece of iron polished into a mirror, much like Ishikori-dome no Mikoto polished the iron. This teaches me that even amidst my “senioritis”, there is always the Straight Path and polishing my mirror to guide me. 

Bibliography

The Kojiki 1:16- https://sacred-texts.com/shi/kj/kj023.htm#fn_414

Fairchild, William P. “Shamanism in Japan.” Folklore Studies, vol. 21, 1962, p. 1, https://doi.org/10.2307/1177349.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

Uchida Memorial Award

“Embracing Half-Moon Cookies”

by Skyler Ogonowski (Rocky Point High School)

I once saw an argument on which side of the black and white cookie was better. Nevertheless, both sides of the cookie contain the same ingredients and are just colored differently. What is the meaning of favoring one side when you can look at the cookie as a whole and like it for what it is? Similarly, many people do not embrace their full self and instead focus on rejecting part of their identity.

 I am blessed to be born with two different identities. Growing up Japanese American, my parents raised me to embrace both cultures equally. Raised on Long Island, a predominantly white area, my Mom made many efforts to encourage me to do activities that connected me to Japanese culture.

One of them is my Japanese Weekend School which I go to every Saturday. I've been attending Japanese school since I was five years old to study math, literature, science, and social studies in Japanese. Not only did this school help me learn more about Japanese culture and language, but it also introduced me to other Americans of Japanese descent who were exactly like me. Another activity was being a camp counselor at Frost Valley Tokyo Camp. During my first session, I worked with a group of kids that included a girl who had arrived from Japan a week prior and did not speak any English at all, and another camper who was quarter Japanese but did not speak any. Owing to the numerous cultural boundaries, interacting with this group was quite difficult. All of us, nevertheless, shared one thing, which was our eagerness to connect to our culture. Even though not everyone could communicate efficiently, there was a sense that we were all similar to one another and formed close ties, much like a family. Lastly, another experience I have had is going to a school in Japan during the summer. This gave me the opportunity to truly embrace my Japanese heritage and gain insight into what it's like to grow up in Japan. Going to school in Japan increased my interest on the other version of myself and encouraged me to learn and connect more with both sides. This experience came with many culture shocks and appreciation for who I am.

I came to understand from these experiences not everyone grew up in a setting that allowed them to accept and value who they are. Every year during speech contests, at least one student at my Japanese school would give a speech about how they suffer from not feeling like they belonged to any certain ethnicity or how they hated being labeled. At Frost Valley some campers were going through a stage of not knowing where they stand as biracial, or felt embarrassed to acknowledge one of their identities. Furthermore, in Japan I would always be told that I was lucky to be American or that I was lucky to have blonde hair. All of this envy towards others and negative talk always broke my heart. These realizations really shone a light on how appreciative I am for my environment and ability to love who I am.

As an incoming freshman in college I wish to major in education. With my degree I want to use my platform as a teacher to encourage all kids to love themselves for who they are. My long-term dream is to spend a year studying abroad in Japan and work as an English teacher there. Through this process it is my dream to connect more with my Japanese self and also allow for my students to connect with themselves. You’re with yourself for a lifetime so it is important to embrace every aspect of who you are. A person is many ingredients baked into one, so don’t try to dismiss part of the recipe, and just enjoy every part of the cookie.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

Special Award (A)

“The Show That Turned My Dreams into Reality”

by Afnan Joarder (The Bronx High School of Science)

The moment I pressed play on the video, it was as if I had been transported back to when I was a four-year-old eagerly watching Kamen Rider on my grandpa’s TV. This time, I was watching Kamen Rider Ryuki, the 12th installment of the Japanese Tokusatsu Kamen Rider series. The show’s exploration of the philosophy behind fighting for personal wishes deeply resonated with me.

Choosing to forego personal desire when faced with the option to pursue a greater path is a concept deeply tied to the idea of goodness. After all, that’s what we see in almost every superhero movie, right? But movies don’t often reflect reality. As humans, we constantly face situations where our wishes conflict with what benefits others. Perhaps not in a heroic setting, but the dilemma still holds true.

When my mom first told me that she wanted us to move to New York City, I was conflicted. I didn’t want to leave my home and my friends behind. I didn’t want to move far away from my grandparents. But I understood that it was necessary for me to comply with the decision because it would benefit our family, as my parents would have better job opportunities there. Unfortunately, not all decisions were that simple—especially when what was “right” was chosen for me.

Ever since I first learned to repair old computers in middle school, I knew in my heart that I wanted to become an engineer. Working with electronics was relaxing. All I had to do was understand what each part did and how to assemble them into a PCB as intended. It came easily to me, and it motivated me to pursue engineering. But my father wanted me to become a doctor like him and his father—to keep the family tradition alive. “It would bring money and respect,” I was told. Now, being forced to apply to colleges with strong pre-med programs, I wondered how I could ever see my passions come true.

That’s when I first watched the 47th episode of Kamen Rider Ryuki, titled Tatakai no Ketsudan, where the main character, Shinji, struggles to find his reason to fight in the Rider War. Every other Kamen Rider had a personal wish or desire they were risking their lives for—everyone except Shinji, who believed it was wrong for the Riders to fight because it was unjust. Watching him contemplate whether he had the right to interfere with others’ dreams for the sake of his own perception of justice strangely resonated with me. It reminded me of my own dilemma with my father. After all that my family had done for me, was it okay for me to go against their wishes in pursuit of my own happiness? Was my wish to become an engineer just as valid as their wish for me to become a doctor? I kept pondering this question as I continued watching the series.

It wasn’t until the episode Kanaetai Negai that I found the answer I was looking for. In that episode, Shinji decided that despite not knowing whether his decision was necessarily right, he wanted to fight to end the war between the Riders because that was what he truly believed in. Seeing his bravery in standing by his beliefs inspired me to do the same. I knew I had to confront my father about my dreams. And although I didn’t know if it was the best thing to do, I knew it had to be done—so that at least I could say I had tried and failed on my own terms rather than letting someone else decide my future for me.

After a long conversation, he eventually agreed to let me study engineering. Now, as I finish my final year of high school, I look back at Kamen Rider Ryuki with gratitude for being the catalyst that helped me carve out my own path in life. 

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

Special Award (B)

“Between The Folds: The Life Lessons Found in Origami”

by Wynn Ng (Stony Brook University)

A blank square of paper lies before me, full of possibilities. An idea comes to mind and I begin folding diagonally, creating a triangle. I unfurl the triangle to produce another diagonal triangle- on its opposite side this time. From there, more triangles and rhombuses emerge as each fold marks a new shape. Each crease is intentional, pressed into permanence by a slight pinch between my thumb and index finger. The room is silent- save for the sound of paper crinkling. The once unassuming paper has now been transformed into a crane in the span of five minutes.

This practice of quiet consideration has been in the works since I was eight years old. I remember my first attempt at origami- the crane’s wings were on the wrong sides as the head and tail seemed impossible to tell from one another. It was the result of haphazard folds produced by rushing to the next step. My origami skills have grown since then and now, I take the time to score each crease– appreciating the intentionality and precision of each fold. Had I rushed this paper crane, its beauty would have been lost. It wouldn’t have just been a poorly formed crane, but a physical reminder of my impatience.

Origami has instilled the values of perseverance and mindfulness in me. It is a practice that demands patience and attention, and with each fold, I am reminded of how beauty can be found in the process of doing things– not just the result.

This lesson of mindfulness and patience resurfaced during my time in high school, particularly in my AP Chemistry class. My teacher, Mr. Nair, would say, “You’ll miss this when you’re gone.” Despite the comfortable ambiance of his classroom, Mr. Nair’s words were like a splash of cold water. Would I be able to experience the same familiarity for my teachers and classmates at college? I had been so excited to move onto the next chapter of my life that I didn’t realize the value of all the things I would be leaving behind to get there. And despite the numerous review sheets he would assign on top of already lengthy homeworks, Mr. Nair was right.

My chemistry class in college was an extremely rude awakening. No longer was there a patient teacher that would answer questions or stay past class to help. I had prepared myself for difficulty, but not for my professor’s relentless pace and complexity of topics. Each unit flew by at lightning speed as I barely understood the previous unit’s content. Rather than my understanding of chemistry growing, the only thing that grew was my disappointment with myself. My now lofty goal of A was readjusted to just passing the class.

During these moments of frustration, I’d glance over to the paper crane atop my desk and recall  my experience with origami. Just like origami, learning chemistry requires patience, time, and a methodical approach. However, as I barely managed to stay afloat in class, I found myself comparing myself to my peers. My classmates seemed to grasp the material at a moment’s glance as I anxiously skimmed the professor’s slides to match his unrelenting pace. Much like my first crane, my understanding of chemistry became disjointed as I attempted to match the pace of a sped-up tutorial. But I came to realize that learning– like origami– requires me to go at my own speed and to fold my understanding step by step. Hastily cramming material, like improperly scoring a fold, would only lead to greater difficulty.

Each moment of confusion, every misstep, was part of the process, just as the crinkled paper’s imperfections are part of the crane’s beauty.

I often recall my AP Chemistry lectures– the sun’s rays gently sifting through the window, the bustling and chattering of classmates, and the laughter from Mr. Nair’s terrible jokes. These moments, fleeting as they were, taught me the vital lesson of appreciating life’s ephemerality. Much like a paper crane, life is shaped and transformed in its own time, and every fold— every decision— contributes to the bigger picture.

Origami and my academic journey have taught me that beauty, understanding, and growth require time and intention. In both the art of folding paper and the science of chemistry, it is not only the outcome that matters, but the process— the quiet, deliberate steps that ultimately lead to transformation. I’ve learned that it is in the patience found between the folds of life that the experience becomes truly meaningful.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

Special Award (C)

“Shinobu: A Story of Perseverance” by Siena Ruske (Bronx High School of Science)

It was dark outside, the house was silent, and it was just my obāchan and me at the dinner table. I picked up my pen, smoothed out my paper, and started the voice recording. Upon my peppering of questions, my obāchan’s words came flowing out, weaving an elaborate tapestry that 11 year old me wouldn’t quite understand yet. Sure, I’d write down her words in the awkward handwriting of a 6th-grader, I’d share her story of escaping the atomic bombs with her family in Hiroshima to my classmates, and I’d do my very best to convey the emotions she expressed while recounting her experience, but not until very recently would I understand the full magnitude of this conversation. Not until recently would I understand the extent to which my obāchan persevered and how this would shape my perception of Japanese culture.

My obāchan immigrated to the US in the mid-20th century to marry my grandfather, a Swiss-German man. They would have two girls, and these two girls would speak Japanese, celebrate Japanese holidays, and have Japanese names. Then these two girls would have children of their own, none of whom grew up speaking Japanese, and whose virtually only ties to Japanese culture is the food their mothers cook, an old relic of their childhood. My obāchan did try to immerse us in her culture, both the traditional and modern versions; she had us try on kimonos, cooked exclusively Japanese cuisine, had us stay in her tatami mat room whenever we’d visit, and would take us to Daiso every year for our birthday. She persevered - persevered against the ruthless force of time, against the inevitable Americanization of her descendants. And these efforts were not in vain. Three years ago, I did what I knew she would have loved and signed up for Japanese class in school. Although my obāchan isn’t here any more to take pride in one of her grandchildren learning her mother tongue, it is thanks to her that I learned to persevere, to make an effort to connect with my ancestors, however far back they may be.

This January, it became apparent to me that I was not the only one to take after my obāchan’s practice of perseverance. On January 7th, as wildfires raged through Los Angeles, burning down communities, homes, and decades of history, my obāchan’s house in Altadena somehow remained untouched. On her street, among the piles of bricks and crumbled foundations of dozens of houses, one house stood tall, perfectly intact. No one really knows why it was left untouched by the flames; some say that my obāchan’s spirit was protecting it, others point to structural factors of the house. But to me, the house simply did what it was taught to do; persevere. This fire was an eye opening metaphor, a realization of everything that the house meant to me, to my family, and especially, to my obāchan. This house, crafted to be traditionally Japanese, was to her, the last relic of her culture. Just like how she persevered, it did as well, and whether it was her that saved the house or simply pure luck, it is apparent to me that it is all thanks to shinobu. Shinobu, meaning perseverance, and also being the Japanese name my obāchan chose for one of her two daughters. Shinobu, representing the unwillingness she and I have to let your culture and part of yourself simply wither away with time.

© Japan Center at Stony Brook

 

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Sponsor: Canon U.S.A.     

Committee members: Carolyn Brooks, Evelyn Cruise,  Kristina Chambers, Mary Diaz, Marlene Dubois, Yasuko Fujita, MaryAnn Hannon, Raphael Hao, Feng-Qian Li, Jane McNulty, Patricia Marinaccio, Hiroko Matsuzaki, Ayaka Mayo, Eva Nagase, Chikako Nakamura, Atsuko Oyama, Mitsuko Post, Gerry Senese, Theresa Spadola, Yvette Vetro, and Gerard Senese

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"Heart of Japan”  was published in 2016. It is a collection of 70 essays selected from 1,992 essays submitted through 169 local colleges and high schools during the first ten annual essay competitions. This essay competition was launched in 2005 with generous donation from Canon USA.  The aim of this program is to encourage young Americans to think outside the box and find a connection to Japan, a culturally very distinct country. They often reflect on their personal experiences and their future goals and come up with unique and original thoughts, some of which make us in tears and fill us with positive spirit. The essays are screened by the Japan Center’s committee members and a panel of judges that consist of Stony Brook University’s faculty members. The winners are formally recognized at the award ceremony that takes place at the Wang Center in each spring and the top winners have been invited to the Japanese Ambassador’s residence for a formal luncheon with the ambassador, which has been creating once-in-lifetime memories for young writers.

 Book cover photo © Yvette Vetro

 

Past Competitions:   

19th competition;18 th competition; 17th competition; 16th competition; 15th competition; 14th Competition;  13th Competition;12th Competition; 11th Competition; First ten competitions 

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