¿Cómo se dice "Speedo" en español?

Spontaneity and structure in school and the pool

Friday 12:30 PM. The students are struggling to focus. Some slump in their seats. Others chatter and fidget. A boy crumples a sheet of paper, hurls it across the table at his friend. You shoot him a look. Today’s lesson plan was to review for next week’s exam, discuss the Latin Grammys and debate the state of Latinx music in 2024. But the students seem too tired, too distracted, and too bored.

As a new Spanish teacher, you have spent four weeks establishing your serious side. But while serious is necessary, it’s not sufficient. Especially not now. Friday afternoon Spanish class is literally the students’ last obstacle before the weekend, homecoming weekend, which starts in 90 minutes with a pep rally. Right now, they don’t care about the past, present perfect, or past perfect. They care only about the immediate future.

“OK, todos levantanse,” you say, lifting your palms. “Everybody up.”

Silence. Then the students stand. Most wear jerseys, tee-shirts, or hoodies in school colors, maroon and grey, festooned with the school logo. You grab the wireless mouse and type on the wireless keyboard to minimize the lesson plan projected on the wall and maximize a music video.

“OK.,” you announce. “Todos vamos a caminar por la habitación.”

Nobody moves. You repeat the instructions with hand gestures.

“Vamos a caminar…” You walk two fingers across your palm.

“…Por la habitación.” You circle your index finger in the air.

Their faces flicker with recognition.

“Bailar?” one student asks anxiously.

“No, walk,” you say, then add. “But if you want to dance, you can dance.”

The students shuffle around the oval wooden table. On the screen, a woman sings mournfully into a microphone at a beach bar.  She finishes to tepid applause. The MC asks if anyone else wants to sing. A woman suggests Karol! A waitress removes her apron and steps from behind the bar onto the stage. Over an upbeat piano merengue groove, she sings:

¿Qué hubiera sido? Si antes te hubiera conocido. Seguramente. Estarías bailando está conmigo. No como amigos. Sino como otra cosa... 

What would have been? If I had met you before. Surely. You would be dancing with me. Not as friends. But as something else…           

The verse is a grammatical goldmine: subjunctive and conditional constructions, concepts and conjugations the students won’t learn until later. But today the song isn’t a grammar lesson. It’s your version of an elementary school “movement break.” It’s your version of your colleague’s favorite intervention when his Spanish students’ spirits sag: play music to revive their energy.

As the song percolates, the students pick up the pace, booting stray backpacks beneath the table. Some start an impromptu game of music chairs, laughing. Others seem puzzled or annoyed. Regardless of their reaction they are all active, moving.

The video selection is not random. For weeks, students have been studying Latin music, each choosing their own artist and song to research. And the singer on screen is Karol G, the global pop superstar from Colombia whose music you love. When you traveled to Medellín this summer, every street vendor seemed to be hawking something celebrating their hometown hero: t-shirts, hats, and stickers emblazoned with Mañana Será Bonito, her latest album, or La Bichota, her nickname.

“Al revés,” you say and circle your index finger.

The students switch directions from clockwise to counterclockwise, some colliding into each other like passengers on a subway that stops suddenly. Perhaps inevitably, some students start a conga line, mimicking the conga line on screen.

Four minutes later, the song stops. You switch off the screen. The students take their  seats. Now they return to their work, maybe amused, maybe annoyed, probably still antsy for the weekend, but palpably more focused.

Class ends and the students spill out of the room saying chau, nos vemos, hasta el lunes—only a few of the many ways to say goodbye.

Speedo Fit

Saturday 8:30 AM. Why are you wearing a Speedo? You are not European.  You are not on a swim team. You are not a narcissist.

Yet here you are, nearly naked, except for this navy blue napkin. The briefs compress your crotch. The snug synthetic fabric pinches your inner thighs. The suit exposes your hips and quads—your summer tan fading to fall pale.

You check yourself in the mirror above the sink. You hate how the suit squeezes some stubborn belly fat, which spills over the waistband. But you like how it highlights your thin torso and muscular chest, shoulders, and arms. One reason you swim: to stay slim and strong. Your friend Julie calls it Old Man Vanity.

Still, you feel self-conscious, vulnerable. So you grab a white terrycloth towel from the stack of folded towels on the shelf and cinch it around your waist. Then you venture through the frosted glass doors to the pool. 

But wait. Why do you even own a Speedo in the first place?

Honey, You’re My Size!

October 2023. After reading your essay draft about bathing suits and body image, your friend dares you to swim in a Speedo every day for 30 days—and sit in the sauna naked, like the old guys in the locker who let it all hang out. The challenge seems scary--and also seductive.

At Paragon Sports in NYC, you browse racks of skimpy swimsuits. The suits come in three colors (black, blue, and red), two brands (Speedo and Tyr) and two cuts (tiny and tinier).

The suits are giving “tightie whitie,” the undies you wore as a boy before switching to baggy boxer shorts and, ultimately, boxer briefs, a hybrid, the best of both worlds.

You hunt for size 32, but the suits are all size 36 or 38—and still seem too small. Beside you, a salesman—tall, thin, Black— shows wetsuits to a short white woman.

He asks if you need help. You nod. He reviews the racks, confirms your size is out of stock. You ask if you need a larger size. He clicks his tongue and says: “Honey, you’re my size.”

He disappears to the storeroom and returns with two pairs: one bikini cut and one “conservative” for you to try on.

In the dressing room, you slip the “larger” suit over your boxer briefs: your pale, hairy inner thighs and crotch on full parade. You can’t wear this in public. No way. It’s too revealing, too indecent, scandalous.

You leave the store and jog down Broadway to teach a writing class at NYU. You are still not the kind of person who wears a Speedo. At least not yet.

A week later, you order a Speedo online. You wear it once, twice, three times to the pool, but never feel comfortable, physically or psychologically.  You quietly fail the 30-day swimsuit challenge.

And the Speedo sits in the bottom of your pool bag for a year, unloved and abandoned.

Until now.

Speedo 2.0

The air is steamy, infused with chlorine. Splashes and high-pitched yelps echo off the tiles. In the outer lanes, kids take lessons with kickboards and flotation barbells. In the center, a strapping guy swims sprawling freestyle, manspreading across the entire lane.

On the deck, a familiar face: a sturdy woman with bleached hair in a hoodie and flip flops.

“Hey,” she booms, smiling. “Look who decided to show up.”

You haven’t seen Coach Meg in three months, not since the final day of Adult Swim camp in July, the day before you swam across the Hudson River. Now, she’s teaching a boy, maybe six or seven years old—and will be giving lessons for the next eight hours.

You drop your bag on the deck to claim the center lane, then walk to the far end of the pool to grab a pull buoy and kickboard—still wearing the towel. When you return to the lane, you plop your bag on the deck and dump out your gear—paddles, fins, snorkel—plus a water bottle and a printout of today’s workout.

Many people swim with no particular plan. You need a clear curriculum. No surprise. At work, at home, in life,  you are obsessively teaching and learning, dos lados de una moneda, two sides of the same coin.

So why are you wearing a Speedo? Ostensibly, it’s to celebrate a milestone: today you are completing “Speedo Fit,” a four-week training plan by the swimwear seller. Two years ago, you could barely swim two laps without gasping. Now, following these free online regimens, you can swim for an hour.

You ditch the towel, then slip swiftly into the water, so nobody notices your near nudity. As soon as you submerge and start swimming, the body shame disappears. 

The water is balmy, cloudy, and choppy from the kids and your lane-mate churning waves. You swim as if Coach Meg is watching, her gruff voice in your head. Hands at forty-five degrees. Lift your hips higher. Kick harder.

During a water break, she catches your eye. “Short pool,” she says. In the summer, you swam in a 50-yard pool, a distance that felt daunting at first, but gradually helped you build stamina and confidence to swim a mile across a river.

You can’t tell if you’re moving any faster or if the Speedo is a placebo. But you do feel a bit braver, lighter, and more free.

When you exit the pool, you gird the terry cloth towel around your waist once again, masking your bare thighs. Pushing your comfort zone is satisfying. 

Still, you doubt you’ll squeeze into this suit again anytime soon.