A Jamaican Experience: The Mirror Incident

By: Baron Stewart

By Christmas of 1979, I was riding high at PID. After two years of hard work and recognition, I had become the department’s top contributor. But that Christmas party changed everything.

The programming team gathered for its annual Secret Santa gift exchange. The mood was festive. When your name was called, you walked to the front of the room, accepted your gift, and opened it for everyone to see.

Then my name was called.

I got up, walked to the front, and accepted a flat, neatly wrapped package. The room fell silent as I stood there. I glanced at the sea of white faces watching me, waiting.

I tore off the paper.

Inside was a mirror. Above it, in bold black letters, was a single word:

PROBLEM.

I looked into the glass and saw my reflection beneath the word.

The room erupted in laughter.

I stood there, holding the mirror, the edges digging into my hands. I sat down without saying a word.

Inside, I was furious, humiliated, and rejected. But more than anything, I wondered why I was working so hard in a place that saw me—not my ideas, not my contributions—but me as the problem.

Looking back, I understand now.

I had written about and offered solutions to PID’s problems, and I had been given funding to fix them. In a short time, I became the department’s most successful programmer.

But I wasn’t one of them anymore.

They also resented that Keith, my implementation partner, hadn’t received the same recognition. He was an artist with excellent visual talents and a master coder, but the organization was rewarding leadership and innovation. I was the one with the ideas, and Keith followed me.

And then there was something else. I hadn’t made the effort to connect with them. I didn’t drink with them on Fridays. I didn’t have lunch with them or share stories. I was focused on my work—and it showed.

I had a bright manager who recognized my talents and gave me every opportunity to use my analytical skills. But I had few people skills, and in the workplace, that mattered more than I understood at the time.

They didn’t just resent my success.

They resented that they didn’t know me.

And I didn’t know them.

The mirror incident forced me to reflect—literally and figuratively. I realized I had been leading with my left brain—logic, analysis, precision. It had served me well technically, but it had left me isolated.

I wanted to develop my right brain. To balance who I was.

The following year, I bought a camera and took it on vacation. I started photographing people—mostly strangers I met along the way. Asking to take someone’s photo led to conversations, and conversations led to friendships. I was learning to connect in ways I never had at work. That simple act softened me. It opened a new possibility for me to relate.

And gradually, I started making friends everywhere.

Even at PID.

But not long after that Christmas party, I made a decision that changed everything—for Keith and me.

John offered me the leadership role on our next significant systems development project. It was high-profile, and I was already the technical leader shaping the design.

But I declined.

I told John to give Keith the project management role.

John was surprised. He asked if I was sure, and I told him I was. Keith should have his moment. If he took the lead, I thought he’d get the recognition he deserved. After some thought, John agreed.

Keith succeeded as project manager. The following year, he received a leadership award that I had won.

I didn’t receive one.

My relationship with John never wavered, but Keith changed. We had once worked as partners. Now, he was competitive—less of a collaborator and more of a rival.

Soon after, the department promoted me to the Technical Staff. It was a significant step forward. I was no longer responsible for programming or project implementation. Keith took over all of that.

My new job was to analyze and restructure PID in preparation for its move to the brand-new, state-of-the-art facility in Sterling Forest.

It was a vast project—an exciting opportunity. The scope was more extensive than anything I’d done before.

But I knew something had shifted.

My responsibilities had changed. My relationships had changed. I had changed.

I wasn’t just an analyst anymore.

I was on a journey to become something else.

But that’s a story for another time.