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In the largest U.S. evacuation of the pandemic, more than half a million people were ordered to flee the Gulf Coast on Tuesday as Laura strengthened into a hurricane that forecasters said could slam Texas and Louisiana with ferocious winds, heavy flooding and the power to push seawater miles inland.More than 385,000 residents were told to flee the Texas cities of Beaumont, Galveston and Port Arthur, and another 200,000 were ordered to leave low-lying Calcasieu Parish in southwestern Louisiana, where forecasters said as much as 13 feet (4 meters) of storm surge topped by waves could submerge whole communities.Forecasters Tuesday night expected the storm to increase in strength by 33%, from 90 mph (144 kmh) to 120 mph (193 kmh) in just 24 hours. They project Laura to strike the coast as a major Category 3 hurricane. The strengthening may slow or stop just before landfall, forecasters said.“The waters are warm enough everywhere there to support a major hurricane, Category 3 or even higher. The waters are very warm where the storm is now and will be for the entire path up until the Gulf Coast,” National Hurricane Center Deputy Director Ed Rappaport said.Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards said Laura is shaping up to look a lot like Hurricane Rita did 15 years ago when it ravaged southwest Louisiana.“We’re going to have significant flooding in places that don’t normally see it,” he said.Ocean water was expected to push onto land along more than 450 miles (724 kilometers) of coast from Texas to Mississippi. Hurricane warnings were issued from San Luis Pass, Texas, to Intracoastal City, Louisiana, and storm surge warnings from the Port Arthur, Texas, flood protection system to the mouth of the Mississippi River.The evacuations could get even bigger if the storm’s track veers to the east or west, said Craig Fugate, the former head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency.Fearing that people would not evacuate in time, Edwards said those in southwest Louisiana need to be where they intend to ride out Laura by noon Wednesday, when the state will start feeling the storm’s effects.Officials urged people to stay with relatives or in hotel rooms to avoid spreading the virus that causes COVID-19. Buses were stocked with protective equipment and disinfectant, and they would carry fewer passengers to keep people apart, Texas officials said.Whitney Frazier, 29, of Beaumont spent Tuesday morning trying to get transportation to a high school where she could board a bus to leave the area.“Especially with everything with COVID going on already on top of a mandatory evacuation, it’s very stressful,” Frazier said.The storm also imperiled a center of the U.S. energy industry. The government said 84% of Gulf oil production and an estimated 61% of natural gas production were shut down. Nearly 300 platforms have been evacuated.While oil prices often spike before a major storm as production slows, consumers are unlikely to see big price changes because the pandemic decimated demand for fuel.As of Tuesday evening, Laura was 435 miles (700 kilometers) southeast of Lake Charles, Louisiana, traveling west-northwest at 17 mph (28 kmh). Its peak winds were 85 mph (140 kph).Laura passed Cuba after killing nearly two dozen people on the island of Hispaniola, including 20 in Haiti and three in the Dominican Republic, where it knocked out power and caused intense flooding. The deaths reportedly included a 10-year-old girl whose home was hit by a tree and a mother and young son crushed by a collapsing wall.As much as 15 inches (38 centimeters) of rain could fall in some parts of Louisiana, said Donald Jones, a National Weather Service meteorologist in Lake Charles, Louisiana.At Grand Isle, Louisiana, Nicole Fantiny said she planned to ride out the hurricane on the barrier island along with a few dozen other people.“It could still change, but we keep on hoping and praying that it keeps on going further west like it’s doing,” said Fantiny, who manages a restaurant.In Galveston and Port Arthur, Texas, mandatory evacuation orders went into effect shortly before daybreak Tuesday. “If you decide to stay, you’re staying on your own,” Port Arthur Mayor Thurman Bartie said.Shelters opened with cots set farther apart to curb coronavirus infections. People planning to enter shelters were told to bring just one bag of personal belongings each, and a mask to reduce the spread of coronavirus.“Hopefully it’s not that threatening to people, to lives, because people are hesitant to go anywhere due to COVID,” Robert Duffy said as he placed sandbags around his home in Morgan City, Louisiana. “Nobody wants to sleep on a gym floor with 200 other people. It’s kind of hard to do social distancing.”Officials in Houston asked residents to prepare supplies in case they lose power for a few days or need to evacuate homes along the coast. Some in the area are still recovering from Hurricane Harvey three years ago.Laura’s arrival comes just days before the Aug. 29 anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, which breached the levees in New Orleans, flattened much of the Mississippi coast and killed as many as 1,800 people in 2005. Less than a month later, Hurricane Rita struck southwest Louisiana as a Category 3 storm.Laura wasn’t much of a concern for Kerry Joe Richard of Stephensville, Louisiana. As the storm approached, he was angling for catfish from a small dock overlooking the bayou that’s behind his elevated wood-frame home.“The only thing I’m worried about is if the fish quit biting,” he said.___Plaisance reported from Stephensville, Louisiana. Associated Press writers Juan Lozano in Houston; Jeff Martin in Marietta, Georgia; Seth Borenstein in Kensington, Maryland; Melinda Deslatte in Baton Rouge; Louisiana; Kevin McGill in New Orleans; Jay Reeves in Birmingham, Alabama; Evens Sanon in Port-au-Prince, Haiti; Cathy Bussewitz in New York; and Paul Weber in Austin, Texas, contributed to this report. 5945

INDIANAPOLIS —  When educators lose their licenses due to misconduct, that doesn’t necessarily mean they can no longer work with children in Indiana.Todd Boldry, a teacher and basketball coach in Knox County schools, was arrested and charged for child seduction. The state revoked his teaching license in 2013 when Boldry voluntarily surrendered it in exchange for prosecutors dropping the criminal charges.Boldry went on to work with teens as a basketball coach for Indiana Dawgz, a travel team in northwest Indiana.While schools have to perform background checks when hiring, there’s no standard procedure for non-school sports teams, churches, volunteer groups, and other organizations.“It would surprise me very little,” said Mike McCarty, a former detective and owner of Safe Hiring Solutions, a Danville company that runs background checks on school employees.“Most volunteer organizations that work or serve with children, it’s a policy issue, it’s not a law issue,” McCarty said. “There’s no standard requirement and there’s no standard for what a background check is."McCarty said many groups make the mistake of relying on the state’s sex offender registry before hiring.“These registries can be terribly outdated, and they vary from state to state,” he said. “It’s very easy to be a convicted sex offender but not be required to register as a sex offender based on plea agreements or a reduction in sentence.”Some educators who lost their state licenses after they were convicted of crimes against children were not on the sex offender registry.Bruce Ryan was convicted in 2011 of sexual misconduct with a minor after an inappropriate relationship with a student at Charles A. Tindley School, but he’s not on the sex offender registry.Former MSD of Wayne Township administrator John Maples was convicted in 2013 of disseminating matter harmful to minors.Maples lost his educator license, but he’s not on the sex offender registry.Similarly, ex-IPS counselor Shana Taylor, accused of having sex with students, lost her state license, but is not on the sex offender registry after pleading guilty to three felony counts of dissemination of matter harmful to minors.Since 2012, the Indiana Department of Education has revoked or suspended the licenses of 108 educators including teachers, counselors and administrators.The top reason – child seduction.ISTEP impropriety, sexual misconduct with a minor, battery, child pornography and child exploitations were among the other reasons for educators losing their licenses to work with children.Under state law, the Indiana Department of Education automatically and permanently revokes licenses after certain offenses, such as child molesting, child solicitation, child exploitation, sexual misconduct with a minor and rape. 2791

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223

INDIANAPOLIS — A part-time trainer at Lutheran High School in Indianapolis says she was told she is no longer welcome there because she is gay.Krystal Brazel had worked at Lutheran High School as a game-only athletic trainer for the past five years. But in February, Brazel was told she would no longer be allowed to work, coach, or volunteer at the school because of her sexual orientation."I think they really decided to make an example of me," Brazel said. "It breaks my heart. I know what I poured into that school."When Brazel started as the athletic trainer at Lutheran High School she was diagnosing injuries on a folding table in the hallway. She started collecting donations because she said the student-athletes deserved more. Eventually, she helped create an athletic training room."I remember going to school thinking I don't ever want to be a high school athletic trainer. That's why I got my masters," Brazel said. "Life happened. And I started at Lutheran just helping out and I realized this is really God's calling for me is to have an impact on these people's lives and maybe be their first real gay Christian that they had an interaction with."In February, Brazel was called into a meeting with the athletic director and head of school and asked to read a handbook that she said stated homosexuality is a sin. She was then asked to sign saying she could follow it, which she couldn't.Brazel is engaged to be married on July 18 to her fiance, Samantha. She was ultimately told she could no longer coach the softball team she just helped lead to a state title in 2019.In June, Franciscan Health and Lutheran High School could not come to an agreement allowing her to continue as the athletic trainer either. Brazel is now sharing her story, pushing for change for the future."I still love them," Brazel said. "I want them to find love and acceptance in their heart and I don't need a sorry from them, I don't need an apology from them, I just want them to change the culture at Lutheran so that it is that love and inviting place that I thought it was for five years before this happened."Lutheran High School is affiliated with "The Lutheran Church Missouri Synod," which is conservative on social issues.Lutheran High School Head of School Michael Brandt released the following statement: 2315

In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223