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

Deadline: January 8, 2025

Rules and Procedures

FAQs 

Rubric 

Submission

For questions, email us at:  

Sponsor: Canon U.S.A.     

Committee members: Roxanne Brockner, Carolyn Brooks, Peg Christoff, Kristina Chambers, Mary Diaz, Marlene Dubois, MaryAnn Hannon, Feng-Qian Li, Jane McNulty, Patricia Marinaccio, Hiroko Matsuzaki, Eva Nagase, Francesca Nakagawa, Chikako Nakamura, Atsuko Oyama, 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

 

19th Competition  (2023-2024)

SBU News; 

Winners

High School Division Best Essay Award

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

“Reflections” written by Talia Beck (Hunter College High School)

2nd Place Best Essay Award

“The Sound of Drums Behind a Stage” written by Anderson Maziero (Bethpage High School)

3rd Place Best Essay Award

“Embracing the Harmony of Silence” written by Arihunt Garg (The Brooklyn Latin School)

College Division Best Essay Award

None identified.

Uchida Memorial Award

“Sparks of Identity” written by Marisa Yamamoto (Syosset High School)

Finalists

(Alphabetically ordered by their family names)

Ivan Chen (Syosset High School)

Shalini Daniel (Saint Anthonys High School)

Laila Murgo (Millennium High School)

Semi-finalists

(Alphabetically ordered by their family names)

Rachel Alexandre (Stony Brook University)

Kiley Barch (Huntington High School)

Sahil Gandhi (Staten Island Technical High School)

Madison Gies (Wellington C Mepham)

Leo Jiang (High School for Dual Language and Asian Studies)

Diya Kaushal (Ward Melville High School)

Philip Kolykhalov (Stony Brook University)

Joshua Li (Stony Brook University)

Rhea Likoka (Mepham High School)

Sofia Marchetta (Stony Brook University)

Finn Mirando (East Hampton High School)

Noah Olivares (WT Clarke High School)

Emma Parrella (Ward Melville High School)

Mya Passanisi (Mepham High School)

Angel Prabakar (Stony Brook University)

Zack Ron (Stony Brook University)

Sammy Underberg (Horace Mann School)

Jonathan Vasquez (Stuyvesant High School)

Wendy Yin (Syosset High School)

Brian Zhang (Ward Melville High School)

Selected Essays

1st Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division and Consul General of Japan Special Award

“Reflections” written by Talia Beck (Hunter College High School)

 When I reach the front of the line,the Infinity Mirrors experience starts with a few instructions: We have 5 minutes to spend in the room. No flash photography. And don’t touch anything. The doors open, and my mom, my grandma and I step on to what appears to be a platform, suspended in space. The room is pitch black. The walls are mirrored with colored light bulbs hanging throughout. The colors change after a certain amount of time. I feel suspended in an endless universe, surrounded by constellations of little lights.

Infinity Mirrors is an immersive art experience by Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese artist who tried to capture the hallucinations she began having as a child through her work. To me, the disconnected circles of light are sort of like the distance between myself, my grandma and my Japanese heritage. My Grandma Miki grew up in post-World War II Tokyo, moving to California in 1967. I’ve grown up in New York, 3000 miles away from her, and nearly 7000 from Japan.

I’m a quarter Japanese, but I don’t look Asian. On every form that asks about racial background, since I was born, my mom has listed me as both Asian and white. I always felt like calling myself biracial was cheating somehow, like the fact that it’s not clear from my appearance means I can’t identify myself that way at all.

“If you don’t want to continuously look at your own reflection, then I probably wouldn’t recommend it,” wrote Bethan Jayne, an artist and co-founder of the Round Lemon, an arts platform, in a review of the Infinity Mirrors on April 14, 2022.

Jayne is right: I feel out of place standing in the exhibit next to my grandma. I look like a giant next to her. Her hair is carefully styled, chin length. Mine is long, unruly, and slightly orange from too much hair dye. Basically, I look like your quintessential American teenager.

Most of the time, I don’t think about Japan and my identity. But in this moment, I can’t escape our reflections, my own or my grandma’s. My mom says that Grandma Miki tried to keep her household as American as possible: she never spoke Japanese at home, and she only cooked American food. That made my mom want to be more connected to her Japanese identity. My mom was raised on McDonalds; I was raised on onigiri and yakisoba. She went to Japan for the first time when she was in college; I went for the first time when I was seven years old.

That’s why we’re here at the Broad Museum in downtown Los Angeles, viewing the Infinity Mirrors, in my mom’s attempt to help me feel more connected to my roots. Instead, the mirrors leave me feeling more like a single star than part of the constellation Kusama has constructed. 

Grandma Miki doesn’t talk about her past, or her family. Our occasional phone conversations are kept strictly to the weather and school. Though I haven’t always felt connected to Japan through her, I’ve found my own ways to learn about the culture, from viewing cherry blossoms at Sakura Matsuri festivals at our local botanical garden every year, to watching and rewatching every Studio Ghibli film. I perfected the origami crane, folding them smaller and smaller until I made one the size of a pencil eraser head.

As I stand on the platform with my mom and grandma, we don’t speak. My mom and I take photos, while Grandma Miki watches and smiles. I try to capture the lights, the way they seem to stretch on endlessly. The illusion is broken only by the clear view of the three of us, reflecting over and over again with the lights.

“The longer you look, the more depth and distance you see. It’s almost possible to disappear though not quite - the problem with mirrors is that you can’t escape yourself,” wrote Nancy Durrant, culture editor of the Standard, in a review published May 17, 2021.

I always have been, and always will be, an outsider to Japan. But Kusama’s way of quite literally placing my family and myself inside her universe made me realize that identity is a search: the simple act of trying to connect the dots is what ended up linking me to my grandma. I don’t know how I’ll continue connecting to other dots in my own universe, but the important thing is that I keep trying.

Works Cited

Durrant, Nancy. “Yayoi Kusama Infinity Mirror Rooms at Tate Modern Review: Utterly

Enchanting.” The Standard, 17 May 2021, https://www.standard.co.uk/culture/exhibitions /yayoi-kusama-infinity-mirror-rooms-tate-modern-review-b935180.html. Accessed 3 Jan. 2024.

Jayne, Bethan. “Feeling Guiltily Underwhelmed: Is Yayoi Kusama’s ‘Infinity Mirror Rooms’

Worth the Hype?” The Round Lemon, 14 April 2022, https://www.roundlemon.co.uk/z est-archive/feeling-guiltily-underwhelmed-is-yayoi-kusamas-infinity-mirror-rooms-worth-the-hypenbsp. Accessed 3 Jan. 2024.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook

2nd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“The Sound of Drums Behind a Stage” written by Anderson Maziero (Bethpage High School)

All throughout my life a connection to the culture that stems from the Japanese had always been apparent. My family, specifically my mother’s side, had always been very proud of their lineage and celebrated the culture that they had come to know and love, and my father’s side of the family without a strand of Japanese DNA in their bodies, found themselves engulfed in the spectacle that is Japan’s way of life. The love for the spirit became a prominent part of my day-to-day life. I visited Japan seeing feats of art and architecture my small mind had never before believed possible. I knew very little, but an appreciation for onstage and physical art was prominent. Barely having entered public school for the first time, I was thrust into activities meant to strengthen the Japanese blood within me. Private classes to learn Japanese first at Stony Brook, then at a language institute in Melville, as well as classes for taiko drumming every week, the spectacle of it all began to fade as it became more of a chore in my life. Until its redemption which shaped me as a person.

            I had failed to absorb these ways into my mind, but the flame within my parents never wavered, and my family’s biggest Japanese interest unfolded. My father over the years had always loved woodwork, especially in our basement which was home to a family of homemade taiko drums. Made from my father’s own two hands, the chance to start our very own taiko group began to take shape and the group known today as Umisora Taiko began. Many people came and left, slowly but surely our family grew, flier after flier we performed wherever we could, faces we had never seen before came to join as our message of inclusion and the Japanese art reached the public. Strangers became friends and friends became family. It was all so heartwarming to see the vision my parents created shine bright as a proud part of my life. Seeing this community we strung together I found that the life I had once grown tired of enveloped my soul with every hit of that taiko drum. The sound and reverberation moved through my body and the flame rekindled guided my every step and movement with those bachi sticks. The essence of Japan and its glory reclaimed a place in my life. Taking a step back to see what beauty Japanese culture could create and what wonderful people it could bring together gave my life a more profound meaning. Not just as a group, but as an individual too.

This burst of life led me to one other discovery that would shape my being more than anything else in the world ever had, the sound of those drums helped me discover my passion for music and performance. Being a relatively soft spoken and shy person, I never had an interest in the stage, but the push that taiko gave me helped me take the chance and explore what once felt impossible to me. And the feeling I get stepping out on a stage cannot be described in words. I am friends with people I had once only known parasocially, I’ve climbed the ranks of my school drama program teaching myself to sing, act, and dance for auditoriums of guests. This life is one I know I must follow as the love for art, music, and performance all in one is something I could never leave out of my life. And looking back, it all started with that first hit of the taiko, the push I never knew I needed which thrust me into the world of performance.

Chasing that life on the stage is no small feat, but having the courage and the determination to do so pushes me further than ever before. Growing this second family of taiko drummers has brought a new world view into perspective. Seeing my hopes, dreams, and aspirations so clearly. Never could this have happened without that burst of energy that the art and culture of Japan gave me. To say Japan is an interest of mine would be a grand understatement. I could not be who I am today without them. It may just be one piece of Japanese art, but it has opened my eyes to two new worlds, one of Japanese culture, and one of performance.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook 

3rd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“Embracing the Harmony of Silence” written by Arihunt Garg (The Brooklyn Latin School)

 “You say it best, when you say nothing at all” - Ronin Keating

I trudged into Tokyo Narita International Airport at 5 a.m. My eyes barely opened as I deplaned and begrudgingly started looking for my next gate. Naturally, I was joined by a sea of people of all colors, shapes, and sizes. After all, Narita is one of Japan’s busiest airports, with planes in motion every hour of the day. As I walked, I observed the typical hustle and bustle to be expected in any international airport. I saw shopkeepers opening their stores, staff cleaning diligently, flight attendants marching in near lockstep, and parents herding children to their next gate. The elderly, adults, teenagers, infants, toddlers, and even babies - everyone seemed to be rushing to get somewhere. What I didn’t hear was the cacophony which usually goes with it.

Although my senses immediately picked up on this absence of noise, it took my brain a moment to recognize and appreciate its calmness. This recognition awakened me from my jetlag, making me alert with intrigue. One could hear a pin drop in the terminal. It seemed that the entire area had been enveloped by a warm, soothing blanket. I asked my mother about this feeling, and she introduced me to the philosophical notion of “Ma.”

Only in Japan will one experience Ma. It is a moment of silence, gap or emptiness during an action and promotes reflection and growth. The Japanese practice this concept in everyday life. It can be observed in art and architecture; music, storytelling, and even basic conversation. It allows a person to pause, meditate, and ponder what they wish to say next. This prevents them from rushing to hurt others with words or actions. Ma is the interval between edges which life needs to grow. Ma gives us time and space to flourish: it encourages humans to experience the animate and inanimate at a spiritual level.

Very few in the West, especially in America, are even aware of this concept. In his bookThe Art of Looking Sideways, renowned British graphic designer, Alan Fletcher reflects, “Isaac Stern described music as ‘that little bit between each note–silences which give the form’…The Japanese have a word (ma) for this interval which gives shape to the whole. In the West, we have neither word nor term. A serious omission.”

Ma is not just negative space. It is positive, intentional, and dynamic. It nurtures balance and a minimalistic approach to life. It is the reason why an artist leaves blank space in a painting. The lack of clutter creates a serene environment which the Japanese value. They seem to embody this concept in every aspect of their lives. It has made them precise, intentional, and effective world leaders.

When the time came to board our airplane, there were no announcements on loudspeakers. Flight attendants raised cardboard signs indicating which groups were to get on first. Instead of rushing to board, passengers calmly lined up while the rest waited for their turn. Toddlers seemed less irate, babies did not fuss or cry out loud.

The constant screaming and chaos found in and around American airports simply promotes stress and noise pollution. Japan has proven that such a place can function better, if not perfectly when enveloped in silence.

After learning about Ma, I no longer blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. I give myself a moment before speaking, especially if I am upset. My thoughts are more organized and I feel that my conversation reflects my true feelings. Practicing Ma has also helped me in public speaking and debate. It enables me to project the essence of my arguments. I used to speak as fast as I could, focusing only on getting all my words out under the five-minute limit. Now, I strengthen my team by giving myself pause and distilling my rebuttals into their core meaning. I speak with intention, and my words are not forced.

Ma demonstrates that silence is the best interruption and that it is indeed golden.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook

Uchida Memorial Award

“Sparks of Identity” written by Marisa Yamamoto (Syosset High School)

Silence surrounds us as we each hold a senko hanabi in our hands. The concentration on our faces flickered by the sparks that are starting to form from the bulging red. The crackles and pops break the silence. Mine falls, scattering and leaving colorful sparks like paint splashing onto a canvas.

As a Japanese-American, Japanese and English escape my mouth before I even have to think. My annual trips to Japan to see my Ojiichān and Obaachān create a bridge between my two identities. The buzzing sound of cicadas makes me sweat instantly under the glaring sun, the fūrin hanging at the entrance of my Ojiichān and Obaachān’s house flowing and harmonizing with the wind, much like me moving back and forth between my two worlds. The wind acts like the familial and cultural influences I experience. Together they are able to create harmony. The “clank” of the drink falling as a person reaches into the Jidōhanbaiki mirrors my two worlds as they crash into each other at times. These sounds resemble the coexistence of multiple identities surrounding me as they bring me back to my “other home”.

Upon arrival at my Ojiichān and Obaachān’s, my cousins surround me, jumping up and down with excitement. I hear my aunts, uncles, and parents talking to each other. My Ojiichān and Obaachān come up to me with big smiles on their faces and bombard me with the “usual” questions.

“Oh my, how tall are you? Do you have a boyfriend? How are your grades?”

After the rapid-fire interview I had with them, they set me down at the table. They bring out osenbei, dorayaki, and purin, stuffing me with food as if I haven’t eaten for the past year. Looking around, I smell the tatami under my folded legs. I hear the lively chatter of my parents. I finally see the fireworks usually sold in packs at supermarkets, waiting to be opened by the tokonoma.

At night, my cousins and I watch as my Ojiichān gets the lighter and candle ready for us on the front porch. We leave the senko hanabi for last.

We each hold our hanabi to the candle, giving it life. The sparks burst in different colors, with each spark leaving trails of light. Ojiichān sits and watches us as we giggle and wave our hanabi in the air as if we are painting the sky. As the last hanabi is thrown into the bucket and fades away, we are finally ready for the senko hanabi.

Gathering in a small circle, we each hold the senko hanabi to the flame of the candle. It does not burst into sparks immediately like the ones before. Instead, it begins with a small red glow, gradually forming small sparks. The cackling sound breaks the silence.

As the red bulb finally falls, the sparks disperse in different directions like a mosaic, with different fragments each telling a different side of me.

The senko hanabi illustrates my journey—the harmony and coexistence of my American and Japanese world, revealed through the glow of each spark.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook

 

Past Competitions:   

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

Submission