My name is Diane Caldwell. I am thirty years old, I reside in a quiet corner of Seattle, and on the night my younger sister was married, I learned two absolute truths about human nature.
First: Humiliation has a distinct auditory signature. It isn’t the collective gasp of a crowd, nor is it the raucous peel of laughter. It is the tiny, razor-sharp silence that detonates inside your own skull the moment you realize you have ceased to be a person and have instead become entertainment.
Second: The people who scream the loudest about class are usually the ones who possess the least of it.
The lesson began at the Fairmont Olympic, a venue that smelled of old money and aggressive floral arrangements. We sat under chandeliers that resembled frozen fireworks, exploding in suspended animation above a ballroom filled with guests who looked as though they had been curated from a catalog designed to make ordinary people feel inadequate.
