I seem to have no trouble doing squats. Of course,
my daughter says—We're Asian; we know how to Asian
squat. This is true. The new trainer asks if my
sciatica flared up after my last session, in which
all she made me do was four sets of squats and
split squats using TRX straps, alternating with
resistance band leg kicks. I think of my grandmother
who tucked her heels directly under her haunches
at the dining table, and eat comfortably in this
position: expertly scooping rice and meat or fish
into a little ball with her fingers, delivering
the savory package into her mouth without spilling
a single grain. Some friends have said, perhaps
this is a remnant memory from colonial times,
our ancestors stooping and squatting, squatting
and stooping in the fields as the foreman or the
Spanish landowner hovered over them, whip in hand.
Which would mean squatting is survival strategy,
a way to fold the body so it pleats smaller and
takes up less space than it thinks it should. But
maybe we were born with a memory of our origins
and connection to the earth, how the god of our
fashioning pinched our brown bodies into shape from
the mud and baked us just right in the sun. How
when we fold and sit closer to earth we can feel
how the power surges through our feet as we rise.