What is my mom going to do with a work permit? Continue kneeling to the floor and dipping her hands into buckets of chemicals when her body is riddled with arthritis? Already thirty years of hard labor have slowly massacred her skin, joints and bones, her hopeful spirit trampled, spit on, kicked about. Why can't the President I once voted for give my mom what's hers: the freedom to be free, to travel home and meet her children without fearing she'll never see the ones born north again. No one who truly believes in justice could ever be President, because to be President you must ignore morality for the sake of appearance.