Edison-raised author explores Black-Asian love and solidarity

When Nina Sharma first met Quincy, she was hitching a ride to a friend’s Fourth of July barbecue in Philadelphia. She noticed a copy of Maxine Hong Kingston’s “The Woman Warrior” in the back seat of his car and was instantly intrigued. 

“Who is this man?” she wondered.

Now married to Quincy, a Black man, Sharma’s relationship has been deeply fulfilling but also a lens through which she confronts complex questions about Afro-Asian allyship, love and solidarity.

For Sharma, allyship isn’t just a political statement—it’s also deeply personal. To her, the opportunities the Civil Rights Movement created for Asians like her parents should have been the foundation of Afro-Asian allyship. But history tells a more fractured story.

“The birth and perpetuation of the problem and the model minority myth is what happened,” she said. “The shooting of Latasha Harlins by Soon Ja Du, a Korean American convenience store owner, and the consequent L.A. riots is what happened. Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard, where Asian Americans were used to undo affirmative action, is what happened. Officer Tou Thao, with his hands in his pocket while Derek Chauvin murdered George Floyd is what happened.”

In the aftermath of George Floyd’s murder, Sharma experienced relief that her community was talking about anti-Blackness in a way they hadn’t before and frustration that it took so long.

Her recently published book, “The Way You Make Me Feel: Love in Black and Brown,” explores the intersection of race, politics, and identity through an intimate lens. Through deeply personal narratives, Sharma unpacks the ways Desis have dealt with racism in America, internalized the model minority myth, and navigated their desire to achieve closer proximity to whiteness. She explores mental health, casteism, and the often-fraught dynamics between Desi and Black communities—all through the lens of her relationship with her husband.

In an interview with Central Desi, Sharma, who grew up in Edison, shares her perspective on these pressing issues and how her book challenges readers to think critically about love, identity, and solidarity.

What led you to write these essays?

One of my first steps toward writing happened over 10 years ago, in Philadelphia, where I was living with Quincy. I didn’t think of myself as a writer yet, but I joined a workshop at the Big Blue Marble Bookstore. My mentor there encouraged me to explore my life through writing. She introduced me to authors I came to admire, like James Baldwin, whose essay “Notes of a Native Son” inspired me to take risks in my work.

Another turning point came during the last semester of my Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program. A classmate told me, “Nina, you’re handing in precise, strong writing, but it feels like you’re holding something back.” I remember feeling called out because it was true.

Even though I was there for memoir writing, I hadn’t addressed my mental health at all. When I finally opened up to my teacher about my hesitations with writing about mania and depression, she asked, “Did you ever feel any pleasure during those times?” That question transformed my perspective.

Instead of writing from a place of stigma or shame, I began seeing myself as a character—someone whose choices were driven by both pain and pleasure. New memories came to me like being in a manic episode and putting on a stylish fuchsia dress from my sister’s closet. For the first time, I didn’t think this is sad but “This is kind of funny.” That shift allowed me to write about both—joy and pain, without shame.

Was it hard to open up so publicly about your mental health and relationship?

I definitely had a journey, and it was rooted in the same concerns many in our community share, “What will people think?” That mindset was deeply ingrained in me, and part of my growth as a writer was learning to push beyond it, write in spite of it and ultimately let it go.

At the beginning of my MFA program, I turned in stories where I thought dramatic things were happening, but really, nothing was. I wrote about me and Quincy as a perfect, happy couple, but that didn’t resonate with anyone.

I realized that writing about flaws, being honest about what was really happening—with me, with Quincy, with my family—made readers feel seen. When I opened up, I also wrote about myself acting terribly, moments where I was being mean to my husband, but I got stronger emotional reader responses, and the feedback meant so much. It also made writing more fun for me.

What I’ve always said is that I want to create characters people root for, no matter what. We don’t root for perfect people; we root for people we share vulnerabilities and imperfections with. 

You have talked about how the model minority myth has caused pain to our community. Can you elaborate on that?

The model minority myth keeps us silent, especially when it comes to mental health. I always come back to David Eng and Shinhee Han’s essay “A Dialogue on Racial Melancholia,” where they write, “For Asian Americans, ideals of whiteness are continually estranged. They remain at an unattainable distance, at once a compelling fantasy and a lost ideal.” 

This quiet sorrow festers in our communities, and divesting from the model minority myth means divesting from whiteness in this way. What happens when we stop striving for whiteness or proximity to it? What space opens up for us just to be? What space opens up to form new coalitions, across generations and color lines?

The pain of this myth is how much it silences us. It keeps us from speaking about our experiences as Asian American immigrants, addressing racism, sexism, or abuse. It equates success with emotional suppression, denying us the right to feel grief, anger, or sadness—emotions that naturally accompany immigration and assimilation.

Do you think there has been a shift over time?

There’s been a shift, and I’ve felt it firsthand, especially on my book tour. At a recent event I did at the Woodbridge Library, the conversations were unforgettable. People were ready to speak their truths in ways that felt new. We talked about nationalism, personal histories, and how those intersect with political histories. These were honest, profound conversations that gave me hope.

I also came across amazing projects while working on this book, like the Blasian March and the Blindian Project, which celebrate Afro-Asian solidarity and relationships. These efforts, I believe, are steps toward generational healing.

You mention helping your parents navigate racism and feeling like the parent in that dynamic. What was that like?

For me, navigating race and racism with my family has always felt like walking a tightrope—balancing what I know with what I choose to share while ensuring the conversation remains honest and non-patronizing. I never want to use my education as a weapon or talk down to them. 

At the same time, it’s important to acknowledge how crucial these conversations are, even when they’re difficult. I think about “the talk”—those specific, often life-or-death conversations Black parents have with their children about encounters with the police. My husband has written about this. He didn’t have the talk in a single moment but instead experienced an ongoing, evolving dialogue with his parents about the realities of growing up Black in America. These conversations make the unspoken clear: lethal anti-Blackness is an everyday reality for Black people in this country.

I never had conversations like that growing up. To be clear, the need wasn’t the same. I didn’t face the same policing or risks that Black children do. But we also didn’t talk directly or substantively about race or racism in general. 

Addressing anti-Blackness in South Asian families can feel particularly challenging, not just because anti-Blackness exists within our communities, but because it forces us to confront our own pain. It requires us to open up about our experiences of racism and marginalization—topics we’ve often been taught to suppress. But when we can confront these truths, we’re far better for it.

Donald Trump comes up in the book, as your dad and others in the Indian community express admiration for him. What do you make of that support, and how does it relate to the race politics and identity issues you're exploring?

To me, the Indian community's support for Trump feels complicated and heartbreaking—almost like a colonizer's logic, shaped by generations of living under strongman or authoritarian rule. Instead of challenging those systems, there’s often an inclination to see them as aspirational. It ties back to the model-minority ideal of success, where the abuses endured historically are internalized and transformed into a drive to replicate that power, even as voters.

There’s a clear connection between upper-caste Hindu identity and support for Trump. The 1965 Immigration Act disproportionately favored higher-caste Indians, selecting those with advanced training in fields like science and technology. This group came to the U.S. with certain privileges like economic security and professional opportunities. But those same privileges also reinforced a caste hierarchy, one that often overlaps with Hindu nationalism.

For some, aligning with Trump’s nationalism—rooted in white supremacy—feels like an extension of that casteism. It’s a way to align with a system of dominance, a kind of proximity to whiteness. Upper-caste Hindus, in particular, may see parallels between their caste privilege and the exclusivity Trump’s rhetoric promotes. Both systems operate on hierarchies that define success as dominance over others, whether explicitly or implicitly.

That said, I’ve also seen other responses within the Indian community. For instance, at one reading I did just before the election, there was palpable excitement about Kamala Harris among some and a conscious decision to refuse both candidates among others. The energy in that room showed me that even within this community, there are contradictions, complexities, and glimmers of hope.

This interview has been edited and condensed. Tehsin Pala is the associate editor of Central Desi, and Ambreen Ali is its founding editor.

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