Nina Sharma is a woman in love. In her debut memoir, The Way You Make Me Feel: Love In Black And Brown, she reflects on the powerful love and solidarity of Afro-Asian allyship through the lens of her own interracial relationship as an Indian woman married to a Black man.
Beginning in the suburbs of New Jersey, we follow Nina through her struggles with bipolar disorder as she simultaneously grapples with her South Asian identity. Nina shares intimate details of her experiences with psychosis that mirror the story of her meeting, falling in love, and building a life with her husband Quincy Jones.
From ruminations on Mira Nair’s classic Afro-Asian love story Mississippi Masala to the visceral confrontation of anti-Blackness in South Asian communities, Nina approaches her own life with equal parts raw vulnerability, humor, and empathy.
Yes, Nina is a woman in love. However, her love extends beyond the context of marriage. Through a deeply intimate portrait of a woman finding her place, we see Nina as someone in love with her husband, her family, and herself.
I spoke with Nina Sharma about South Asian identity, self-love in the writing process, and what Afro-Asian solidarity means to her.
Anupa Otiv: As a South Asian writer from New Jersey, this collection felt immediately personal to me. You write about your life against the backdrop of North Jersey and speak to a specific kind of South Asian upbringing in America. What role does New Jersey play in your identity as a South Asian woman? Was that something you were thinking about while writing?
Nina Sharma: Thank you! It takes a fellow New Jerseyan to notice some of the deep cut references in this book, so I really appreciate it.
Having been raised in Edison in the late ’80s and ’90s, I got to see it become the Edison it is today, an enclave of South Asian culture and community. For example, there was an ice cream shop that became a Bombay chaat house, but the structure of the building was preserved with the same ice cream sign. It wasn’t technically chaat, but they made it work for them! In a way, my journey was the inverse of that. Even though I grew up in a South Asian community, I went to a predominantly white private school and spent a large portion of my youth assimilating into whiteness.
That journey reminds me of my parents and their journey immigrating to this country. And even though Edison has a strong South Asian community, that dichotomy is a reminder of how white supremacy operates in this country and how large it looms for immigrants. It’s a large touchpoint throughout the book, and something I think about constantly having grown up in that part of New Jersey. My Edison roots deeply inform my identity as a first generation South Asian and have helped me articulate my sense of self over time.
AO: One of the most poignant relationships in this book aside from your marriage is the one you have with your parents. You write about them with such honesty and nuance, whether it’s in regards to your mental health or their grappling with your Afro-Asian relationship. What was it like writing about your parents in such a personal way?
NS: Honestly, it was very hard. It was a relentless inner conflict I faced, but I’m so grateful that my husband Quincy was a reader throughout the writing process. He helped me see the power in writing complex human characters with virtues and flaws, whether it was my parents or myself. Around the time I had begun my MFA, I would write stories about my life and relationships through a filtered lens. There was a sheen of perfection that ended up creating distance between me and the reader. Once I started to write messy stories about our fights, about dirty dishes, I found that readers were able to relate to me more.
By bestowing humanity onto everyone in this book, I hope to portray the people I love as characters readers are rooting for.
Even though it’s a memoir, I view the people in this book as characters, including myself. My hope was to portray everyone, especially my parents, with the complexity they deserved. And that complexity is what makes them endearing. By bestowing humanity onto everyone in this book, I hope to portray the people I love as characters readers are rooting for.
AO: I understand that impulse to add a “sheen of perfection.” It feels safer to withhold the inevitable ugliness of our lived experience. What allowed you to be so raw in your writing?
NS: In general, I think of myself as a private person. However, writing has always been my excuse to just let it all hang out. Essays in particular are my chosen medium to connect with others and share my raw self with the world.
One of my teachers at Columbia, Phillip Lopate, wrote in his book The Art of The Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to Present, that the heart of the essay is a feeling of companionship between the reader and the writer and I think that is very true. Whether you’re writing broadly about complex political issues, or you’re writing something deeply intimate, that companionship is an essential component to connect with other people. It requires a level of rawness to foster that.
AO: How did you decide which stories were essential for the narrative of this collection and which ones to leave out?
NS: When I was developing the essay “Shithole Country Clubs” originally for The Margins, my editor Jyothi Natarajan was reading my essay “Shithole Country Clubs,” which has made its way into the book. At the time, there were so many competing ideas and threads in the piece. To narrow it down she asked me, “How much can this story hold?”
I think about that all the time. What is the core reactor of an essay and what will help me move closer towards that? What can be saved for another story, another essay, or another book? Sometimes, I will write something and be like “Woah, I found some gold! But this gold is for another day.” So, it doesn’t feel like leaving things out, but rather seeing potential in my stories to become something else.
AO: The collection primarily navigates your interracial marriage to Quincy Jones, however the love in this book extends beyond marriage. What struck me most was your ability to write about yourself and your own mental health journey with so much empathy and self-love. How did you practice centering self-love throughout the writing process?
NS: Writing to me is ultimately an act of self-love. The process of writing about my mental health, for example, is a way to address and overcome my reservations about it. Sometimes I’m surprised that I still encounter reservations [about mental health], but I think it’s ultimately good to have those moments of reckoning.
Afro-Asian allyship starts with two things: Listening and remembering our history.
Writing is an opportunity to dig deeper into my feelings and understand where they are coming from. Am I feeling shame? Is it internalized judgment or stigma? A big part of the process for this book was writing through that insecurity to reach a point of self-love. This is where writing myself as a character in a novel instead of the narrator of my life comes in handy. It forces me to root for myself!
AO: I love that. You’re Nina the heroine on her hero’s journey!
NS: I’m like the princess from Mario.
AO: Princess Peach?
NS: Yes!
AO: Your sense of humor is deeply present throughout this collection, even as you wrote about racism, white supremacy, and mental health. How did you lean into humor as a tool to communicate these things without sugarcoating it or overlooking it?
NS: Humor is a way to create a conversation on the page. It’s the art of capturing how we talk to one another. When we talk to friends, we emotionally heighten to get a reaction or to make them laugh. We tell jokes to bring us closer. Humor is integral to how I talk to everyone. I can’t imagine creating a relationship with my readers without it, you know?
If I’m writing and the comedy doesn’t emerge, then there’s a problem. Even if the subject matter is dark, I tend to reach for laughter. Laughter to me isn’t making light. I don’t subscribe to the idea of “comic relief.” Laughter to me is mission-driven, can help me hone in on something I want to break a silence over, laughter is maybe the first and most primal act of breaking a silence.
Back when I started performing improv comedy at The Magnet Theater in Manhattan, I was working on stories that would eventually end up in this book. I saw a flier at the theater for “You Are Not Alone,” a show that merges improv with uplifting stories about mental health and depression. When I saw that, I knew it was for me! It showed me how powerful comedy can be in making people feel seen and understood. Comedy is a tool to relate to people without minimizing myself or my experience.
AO: Another powerful tool you use is pop culture criticism. One essay in this book is about your complicated relationship with the Mira Nair film “Mississippi Masala.” What role does pop culture criticism play in storytelling for you?
NS: American pop culture is a big part of this book, partly because it’s a vehicle for assimilation as a first generation Indian American. Movies and music were an anchor for me as I was coming into myself as an Indian and an American.
With Mississippi Masala, a film about an Afro-Asian relationship, I always thought it was beautiful and iconic, but it took me a few watches to have that breakthrough moment with it. I could never understand what was stopping me from having a personal relationship with the film. Was it internalized racism? Was it simply hard to watch as I experienced something similar with my own parents over my own Afro-Asian relationship?
Writing through those feelings helped me to come to terms with them. I realized that my journey to understanding and loving that movie was mirrored in my journey to understanding and loving myself.
AO: Afro-Asian allyship is an ongoing theme throughout the book, especially in the context of your marriage. What does Afro-Asian allyship and solidarity mean to you beyond the context of romantic love?
NS: We are living in a time when teaching and recording the history of racism in this country is being threatened. We’re living in a time when racism in this country is being challenged in a new way. Diversity and inclusion programs are being threatened and cut, books are being banned in record numbers, and critical race theory is being removed from school curriculums. It’s scary, but it’s also an opportunity to stand up and outwardly oppose that future.
To me, Afro-Asian allyship starts with two things: Listening and remembering our history. Of course, there are direct actions that must be taken through protesting and mutual aid. But in a time where schools are being policed and students are being censored, knowledge is our greatest power. Remembering our history ensures we don’t repeat the same mistakes of our ancestors. We can practice that in different ways too, like donating time and money to grassroots organizations, and platforming the work of Black, queer, feminist scholars. Most importantly, I think it’s about choosing to show up every day to express and practice solidarity.
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