One of the beneficial side effects of a birthday party are the traces that remain in the form of gifts that mirror relationships and mutual perception. The gifts that were given to me in March were most creatively and carefully wrapped, so that I was deeply touched by the thoughtfulness of the many wonderful people that I am privileged to regard as part of my life. Now, over a month later, I find myself left, in particular, with substantial quantities of red wine and books, books, books, books – reassured by this acceptance and affirmation of what has been the greatest passion of my life for almost as long as I can remember: the written word.

When I finished reading another of these books this morning, Richard Sennett's The Craftsman, after 296 pages I was still unable to determine exactly what it was that I found irritating about this book. In the end, my efforts to come to terms with this book merged with the ongoing conflicts with my elder son, so that in the middle of this Saturday in the midst of a much-needed long weekend, I feel somehow both rebellious and disconcerted.

The problem may be simply that Sennett is writing for an American audience with a mindset that is meanwhile quite alien to me, so that I was irritated by the many steps of "translation" that I needed to take to understand his points. Nevertheless, in many ways it tied in well to ongoing discussions with my husband about how he understands his work both as a violin maker and a network administrator and how the two are not at all contrary kinds of work, and how I understand my work as a translator and the processes and different types of understanding that this work entails. In many ways, I do find it useful to think of my translating work as a skill, something that needs to be continuously practiced and further developed in order to remain alive. Somewhat to my surprise, the book also helped me to retrospectively make a little more sense of my highly emotional, extremely negative reaction to a description of myself and my work that I unexpectedly received some months ago. This brief statement caught me completely off guard as I read in it a sweeping negation of ideals that I had struggled with for years and years, labeling me with seemingly breathtaking confidence a "perfectionist" and describing my translation work as an "outlet" for my "personal creativity". Although I rejected the statement, it ultimately left me feeling vulnerable and filled with self-doubt at a time when I could least afford that in the midst of a large-scale project. For months I have had the uncomfortable feeling that all my work has been accompanied by a kind of mental "off-screen narration" providing a continuous commentary as a theoretical interpretive framework. In many ways, much of Sennett's book corroborated that commentary. I was particularly amused by his assertion that "perfectionism" is a borderline personality disorder and wished I could have read that some ten years ago, when I was grasping for arguments against the apparently widely held assumption that a tendency to "perfectionism" is a common characteristic of "gifted children", as I consistently rejected that label for my children, especially my younger son, but at the same time thus found myself lacking any other kind of coherent explanation for bizarre and often unintelligible behavior.

Enter my elder son. Not quite 18 years old, but easily able to pass as being in his mid-twenties (which most of his friends actually are), well known and well liked in the local cultural scene, respected for his music, his writing and performances and his concert organizing activities as well as for his articulate, informed political convictions, he is knowledgeable about many things and able to hold interesting conversations with a wide variety of people. It was a pleasure being with him at the film festival in Linz last week, but I was most impressed when a young woman, whom I greatly admire, told me that what impresses her most about my sons is their modesty. I agree with her, but I was happy to hear that from someone else with such a profound understanding of human behavior.

Then my son goes back to school and finds himself labeled a "failure", a negligent pupil who is "not making enough effort", not conforming sufficiently to the system. We have been fighting this system together for twelve long years now, but at this point, with only one year left for both of the boys to finish (one skipped a year in primary school, one fell back a year following a long and difficult illness, so they are finishing now together), more and more I have the feeling that this battle is no longer worth fighting. Would not finishing be an admission of defeat or a self-respecting statement of protest?

Which brings me back to Sennett's The Craftsman. Throughout the book, throughout his discussions of learning processes, how knowledge is acquired and skills practiced and refined, there is no mention of the huge stumbling block of educational systems. When my sons first started school, we were adamant about sending them to the local neighborhood school, not any kind of "alternative" school. As I have often stated in every possible context, it has always been my conviction that my children are not "gifted", but incredibly privileged: two white, male, healthy, bright children from a stable, well educated and affirmative home background, securely embedded in a wide network of creative, intelligent and affectionate friends and relatives, speaking the local language that signals belonging and the international language of power – the list goes on and on. I said that it is not the school's responsibility to enhance the privileges and advantages they already have, but to provide them with a framework for learning to use those privileges wisely – for themselves and others. Over the years, I have learned to recognize a certain arrogance inherent to that position. The choices I made for my children were based on over 30 years of life experience before they were even born. What I neglected to take into account was how little suited the affirmative framework of their lives was to equip them to deal with the rigid and judgmental framework of school, designed to train young minds to conform to certain societal expectations – of which my children have had little direct experience of their own. Until a few years ago, my elder son didn't even know of the concept of a regularly monthly salary. The system of "regular working hours" that the boys live with in school has no correlation with anything in their lives outside of school. Concepts like "security", "advancement", "competitiveness", "career" are not part of the world we live in together. What possible motivation could they have for "academic achievement"? That is wholly irrelevant to the interests they wish to pursue. Neither of their parents have academic credentials; those of our friends who actually have academic titles rarely use them, and school is not something that anyone I know recalls with pleasure. Why bother?

What motivates me, what motivates my husband – who is in fact an exemplary craftsman according to Sennett's book – as well as our sons and the majority of the people who are part of our lives, is not simply a sense of satisfaction that comes from doing something well, certainly not some kind of external judgment or assessment, but respect and affirmation and acknowledgment from people who appreciate not just the final results of our work, but also the time and effort it took to get there – again and again and again.