More on The Man in the High Castle

Since I'm not doing my presentation precisely on this topic… I think I'll address it here instead.
You see, as much as I enjoyed this book, and admired the author for having crafted such a good work of fiction… the book frustrated me.
I don't like how everyone fits some sort of mold. The Japanese AREN'T just as described in this work of fiction. Nor are all the Germans, or all the Americans or all of anyone else. I grew up with a melange of Japanese and Caucasian traditions and whatnot. And that's only a fraction of why this book frustrates me.
nd I only know a fraction more… but for this fraction, think I have some idea of why:
Having been insulted many times with relation to my racial appearance, the incidence of such strong racial categorization found in this novel almost made me feel sick.
I've had the words 'Jap' and 'Chink' used to describe me. I've had people spit on me to make me feel as if I were less than I was. I've seen people deride me for being female and for having a potentially Muslim (or marginalized in general) name. I am not a 'Boy Named Sue'. I've spend many hours trying to deal with the fact that people thought me as inferior or at least treated me as such. And this cuts like so many chainsaws. Not smooth by any means of imagination.
Far removed from it I am now. But yet, every time I encounter it anew, the memories still make me recoil, and this book encites some of this disgust. Schoolyard bullying is one thing, but enough is enough. Now it may be more subtle than being thrown against lockers or being told the impossible: that someone is allergic to me. Now it may be the mere insinuation that I am not as Canadian as they are. That I should perhaps not exist due to the nature of my birth. That I am not as good as they.
Should I say: Well so sorry for existing?
No! I'm here, and will be for a long while yet.
And the book opens my eyes, to how much terribly worse it could all be.
And the book IS fiction.
As much as my presentation explains how it sometimes isn't.
And were I born in the world of that book, what could I do, really?
For I would most surely not fit.
And unlike Frank Frink, I could not hide.
I look too much the part.
And it's a scary thought.
Albeit a real one.
They still do these things.
Some places.