The paparazzi’s cameras were flashing, but their lenses were all pointed at someone else.

I was at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California, attending the 2015 Grammy Award ceremony. I’d been nominated for “Best Rap Performance,” and was competing against the likes of Eminem, Drake, and Kendrick Lamar. I had already won two Grammys, but this was different.

Many people don’t know that all Grammy awards are not created equal. An unspoken hierarchy exists in many circles, and some categories are more respected than others. Within the music world, if you tell someone you won a Grammy, the first follow-up question is “Which category?” Though I’m grateful for my wins for “Best Gospel Album” and “Best Contemporary Christian Music Performance,” as you might guess, some consider those closer to the bottom of the list than the top. But this nomination for “Best Rap Performance” had a different kind of significance. It told the world that an alternative voice with an alternative message was being considered among the biggest artists of our time. It said that the industry had finally recognized a new way of making hip-hop.

That’s why I was so mad at myself when I arrived late to the red carpet after promising I’d get there early. It was a rookie mistake. The biggest stars show up just before show time, so all the younger and lesser known artists know to arrive early to avoid competing with Katy Perry for interviews. Even a few minutes can make a difference between landing a blurb in Rolling Stone and hearing crickets.

When I stepped out of the car, I thought to myself, You are at the Grammys, man. I tried to just be in the moment and not to look at the stands where fans were sitting and pointing and criticizing every fold and shade of fabric. There I was taking a coveted walk and rubbing shoulders with John Legend, Kanye West, Chris Brown, and Meghan Trainor. It was difficult to believe that after all of the writing and rapping and refining and recording and touring and promoting and praying, I stood there.

But as it turned out, walking the red carpet at the 2015 Grammys was a more complicated affair than I had imagined. People kept passing on interviews and some were painfully attempting to not even make eye contact with me.

Hey, that reporter looks like they are trying to get my attention, I thought. Wait . . . no. . . . they are waving at Questlove.

When I reached the end of the carpet — you know, the place where artists stand in front of the Grammys backdrop and a crowd of photographers takes their picture — a security guard lowered his hand and asked me to wait. He waved Iggy Azalea around me. She smiled, and the cameras went crazy. When she finished, I started to proceed and the security guard stopped me again. He waved Rick Ross through.

This happened so many times I lost count. Wiz Khalifa and then Taylor Swift and then Keith Urban and then Ziggy Marley. Somewhere in the process my wife threw up her hands and left me to go sit down. For 45 minutes I waited until the security guard finally raised his arm and waved me through.

I walked in front of the backdrop in my crisp tuxedo and shiny shoes, standing tall and proud as a nominee in a respected category. I gave them the best smile I had. And . . . almost every journalist lowered their camera. Maybe five of the forty photographers took my picture, and I’m pretty sure those were snapped out of pity.

Some people say the red carpet is the best litmus test for how famous you are or how famous you’re not. For how accepted you are or aren’t. If this is true, the message was clear: I am not one of “them.”

I started to get that feeling earlier in the day at Jay-Z and Beyonce’s “Rock Nation” party on a lawn tucked behind a Beverly Hills mansion. I’m kind of a people-watcher and also an introvert, so I made up my mind before arriving that I was going to sink back and mind my business.

The event was a whirlwind of hype and hustle. The smell of cigars and fancy French perfume filled the air while bartenders poured bottle after bottle of “Ace of Spades” champagne. Everyone was draped in borrowed jewelry and clothes made by designers that most people can’t pronounce. Italian shoes, thousand-dollar jeans, tiny but noticeable logos on pockets and lapels. (Fashion is something of an art for musicians, so everyone tries to strike a balance between the brand being obvious, but downplayed.)

It quickly became clear that there were two classes of people. In the center of yard was the first class: epic stars — Jay-Z and Kanye and Nicky Minaj and Rihanna. They were sitting on couches under a gazebo with security surrounding them.

And around the gazebo was the second class: everyone else. These were people from the famous, to the famous-ish, to the hope- to-be-famous. They were all talented and successful, but not part of the pantheon who exist in the stratosphere of super-celebrities. Many of them were hovering around the couches, pretending not to be mesmerized and hoping to get noticed.

After about twenty minutes of people watching, I snapped out of my daze and realized something: nobody had initiated a conversation with me. No one, that is, except for record executives who thought I could make them some money. I stood on the outside, barely part of the second group. While everyone else was congregating and hi-fiving, I was just taking up space.

People who’ve only seen me perform might assume that I’m confident and that being ignored wouldn’t bother me — but it does.