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I was at the social security counseling center today. I'd come armed with documents. I had diplomas and birth certificates. I had proof of previous unemployment. I had my American accent and German grammar. I had my residence permit, the deed to my house and all my teeth. Pay stubs. I had my high school transcript. I had the approval for two maternity leaves. I had trouble explaning Italy. I'd had trouble understanding Italy, though there was a shop on the other side of the Via Manzoni that just clicked. I’d brought a picture of me in a bikini. The counseler asked me about my husband. I tried spelling that. Damn, he wasn’t making it easy. He asked me if I was an artist and I asked why that. Because I was wearing the same socks and underwear as yesterday? I don’t change that quickly. Even as we spoke I was racking up brownie points. I didn’t tell him about the poem in my bookbag about a pornographic spatula, and he wasn't bright enough to ask.