In September 1973, within the first weeks of Professor Swartz\u2019s beginning Arabic course, most students had dropped out, and three remaining women joined forces to conquer Thatcher\u2019s \u201cArabic Grammar of the Written Language.\u201d What an improbable trio we were! Jeri was a talented religion major from Miami who often swept into class wearing a mink coat. I was a politically-na\u00efve dressed-down southerner who had become captivated by the Near East overseas the semester before. Holly, a pedigreed Corning, NY native, was classics major for whom Arabic complemented the ancient Greek and Roman she had begun to master. For us, Arabic was a discipline, a complicated, intricate enterprise not to be lightly tossed off: it was a badge of distinction to distinguish a seated-Hamza <\/em>from a Hammam<\/em>.<\/p>\n Holly\u2019s commitment to Arabic and her passion for the classics belied a 1970s assumption that a beautiful blond with an over-sized personality might better enjoy weekends socializing on the Cape than studying a serious curriculum. But charting a clear path to her goals was Holly\u2019s strong suit. Every time I ran into Holly, she had a book in her hand, a Greek or Roman text she was translating, often to the amusement or annoyance of anyone nearby. In spite of her endless capacity for mirth, scholarship and learning were foremost on Holly\u2019s mind. It was clear that what mattered to Holly was that others take her as seriously as she took herself. She had a brain and she knew how to use it.<\/p>\n Yet, what I love and respect the most about Holly is her irrepressible spirit and her ability to surprise. The July after mastering \u201cThatcher\u2019s Grammar,\u201d Holly and I took an intermediate Arabic class, a serious, tedious summer session in sweltering-hot Cambridge. While running an errand at a break, Holly was caught in a rainstorm and returned to Harvard Yard thoroughly drenched, dripping hair, wet clinging tee-shirt and all. \u201cI\u2019ve just bumped into the man I\u2019m going to marry,\u201d she boldly declared. \u201cWhat?\u201d I replied incredulously. I had never heard her refer to a serious boyfriend much less a prospective husband. I could only imagine the scene: Holly, shivering in the bank line\u2026some strange guy comes up to offer assistance and momentarily sweeps her off her feet.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d she breathlessly insisted, \u201cI\u2019m going to marry Greg Nagy.\u201d And so, she did. At the time, I didn\u2019t know who Greg was. But like everything else, Holly\u2019s vision for her life was clear and decisive, and the match was brilliant.<\/p>\n Festschrifts honor the scholar. I honor Holly, the scholar and the irrepressible young woman in an unlikely trio of Arabic language students forty-five years ago.<\/p>\n \u2013 January 2018<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Reminiscence\u2026 In September 1973, within the first weeks of Professor Swartz\u2019s beginning Arabic course, most students had dropped out, and three remaining women joined forces to conquer Thatcher\u2019s \u201cArabic Grammar of the Written Language.\u201d What an improbable trio we were! Jeri was a talented religion major from Miami who often swept into class wearing a … <\/p>\n