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AUSTIN, Texas – Inside a restaurant called “The Pita Shack,” Ayman Attar Bashi recreates part of his culture through the food served in his restaurant. “We are lucky,” he said. He and his family are lucky because a decade ago, they fled violence in Iraq, becoming refugees and resettling in Austin, Texas. “To be a refugee is not a choice,” he said. “Not a choice.” Refugees like Ayman, though, may no longer be able to count on Texas for a fresh start. Governor Greg Abbott said the state has already done more than its fair share. In a letter to Secretary of State Mike Pompeo, Gov. Abbott said that since 2010, “…roughly 10% of all refugees resettled in the United States have been placed in Texas.” He added that, “in addition to accepting refugees all these years, Texas has been left by Congress to deal with disproportionate migration issues resulting from a broken federal immigration system.” “There had been 41 other governors that had had come out and said, ‘yes, our state we would love to continue to accept refugees’ and that was a mix of Democrats and Republican governors, and so Gov. Abbott was the very first who had said no,” said Russell Smith, with Refugee Services of Texas, the largest resettlement agency in a state. Last year, Texas took in 2,227 refugees – the most of any state. It was followed by Washington, with 1,930 and California with 1,802. Overall, America is admitting fewer refugees. Back in 2016, President Barack Obama set a limit of 110,000 for the 2017 fiscal year. This year, President Donald Trump is setting a limit of 18,000. Though a judge put a temporary stop to the Texas plan, the potential for refugees to be rejected looms large here. “Every action has negatively affected resettlement at the same time,” Smith said. Whether the plan eventually goes through – or gets permanently rejected by the courts – remains to be seen. Back at his restaurant, Ayman says he and his family feel safe and welcomed in Austin. “You’re an active element in this community because we’re hiring people, we are providing people with good food, spread our culture – at the end of the day, you feel like you are doing a lot of good things in this community,” he said.The Trump administration has not said yet whether it will seek to appeal the federal judge’s decision, which stopped Texas from refusing refugees. 2356

MIAMI, Fla. — Miami-Dade County will have a countywide curfew as the surge of the coronavirus continues in Florida.Mayor Carlos Gimenez has signed the order for the curfew. Starting Friday, July 3, the county will have a 10 p.m. curfew until 6 a.m.Essential workers, first responders, hospital workers, food delivery services and media will be exempt from the curfew.Mayor Gimenez is also rolling back the reopening of entertainment facilities such as movie theaters, arcades, casinos (with the exception of tribal casinos), adult entertainment, concert houses, bowling alleys and other places that have recently had their plans approved by the county.That order will be signed later on Thursday.People who go to restaurants will have to keep their masks on while seated at the table. They will only be allowed to take the masks off only to eat and drink. Mayor Gimenez says if you are waiting for your meal, keep the masks on while you are having a conversation. Hospitals are also experiencing an uptick in patients, and medical professionals are seeing a rise in 18 to 34 year olds who are getting sick, Gimenez said.At this time, hospitals still have plenty of beds, but some are experiencing staffing shortages. "The death of an 11-year-old boy, reported today by the Florida Department of Health in Miami-Dade County, should send a signal to all of our community that this virus can attack anyone without mercy," Gimenez said. As the Fourth of July weekend approaches, Miami-Dade police will be checking out thousands of businesses and close those that violate the rules and capcatiy limits. Owners will face criminal fines of up to 0 and 180 days in jail."I do not want to go back to closing all but essential businesses, but the only way to avoid that is for everyone to take COVID-19 seriously. That means every generation - everyone of us, no exceptions," Gimenez said. This article was written by Lisette Lopez for WFTS. 1957

NEW ORLEANS, La. – In the middle of Mardi Gras and just a few blocks off Bourbon Street in New Orleans, there’s an ink master leaving permanent marks on multiple generations. Jacci Gresham is known to many as America’s first black female tattoo artist. When we met Gresham, she was tattooing the jawline of one of her workers. “It’s an honor to get a panther from Jacci,” said the woman getting the tattoo. “Because she’s like the blackest panther of them all.” Gresham started tattooing in an era when women – especially black women – weren’t involved or even respected in the industry. “At that time women weren’t recognized as tattoo artists,” she said. “So, especially to see a black woman doing tattoos was kind of unusual – to see a woman doing tattoos was unusual.” Gresham gave her first tattoo in her home state of Michigan in 1972. After losing her job in the automotive industry, she moved to New Orleans and opened up what would become the city’s oldest tattoo shop – Aart Accent Tattoos and Body Piercing. Along the way, Gresham estimates that she’s inked thousands of people from all kinds of cultures – including a member of the Ku Klux Klan. “It was interesting to talk to somebody from a Klan’s person that would allow a black person to tattoo them,” she said. “And the reason why he allowed me to tattoo him – or so he said – was because I gave a good tattoo.” Gresham believes a good tattoo can help break down old racial barriers while also inspiring younger artists. “I see it every day here,” she said. “We do quite a cross section of people. I have black artists, white artists, Spanish artists. And people are looking for the art. They’re not looking at the who actually did the work.” Now in her 70s, Gresham is still perfecting her craft while adding art to human canvases with the hope her impact lasts longer than the tattoo ink that runs skin deep.“Stay on that grind,” she said. “If it’s in your heart, you can’t give it up.” 1969

NEW ORLEANS, La. – In the middle of Mardi Gras and just a few blocks off Bourbon Street in New Orleans, there’s an ink master leaving permanent marks on multiple generations. Jacci Gresham is known to many as America’s first black female tattoo artist. When we met Gresham, she was tattooing the jawline of one of her workers. “It’s an honor to get a panther from Jacci,” said the woman getting the tattoo. “Because she’s like the blackest panther of them all.” Gresham started tattooing in an era when women – especially black women – weren’t involved or even respected in the industry. “At that time women weren’t recognized as tattoo artists,” she said. “So, especially to see a black woman doing tattoos was kind of unusual – to see a woman doing tattoos was unusual.” Gresham gave her first tattoo in her home state of Michigan in 1972. After losing her job in the automotive industry, she moved to New Orleans and opened up what would become the city’s oldest tattoo shop – Aart Accent Tattoos and Body Piercing. Along the way, Gresham estimates that she’s inked thousands of people from all kinds of cultures – including a member of the Ku Klux Klan. “It was interesting to talk to somebody from a Klan’s person that would allow a black person to tattoo them,” she said. “And the reason why he allowed me to tattoo him – or so he said – was because I gave a good tattoo.” Gresham believes a good tattoo can help break down old racial barriers while also inspiring younger artists. “I see it every day here,” she said. “We do quite a cross section of people. I have black artists, white artists, Spanish artists. And people are looking for the art. They’re not looking at the who actually did the work.” Now in her 70s, Gresham is still perfecting her craft while adding art to human canvases with the hope her impact lasts longer than the tattoo ink that runs skin deep.“Stay on that grind,” she said. “If it’s in your heart, you can’t give it up.” 1969

NASHVILLE, Tenn. -- When you think of Nashville, you think bright lights and big music. Poverty is not part of its image. “There’s so many creative people that never get a chance to do anything with it. You’re too busy trying to survive, trying to eat, trying to stay alive,” said Chris Bandy, an artist. But poverty does exist in Nashville, and the rest of the U.S. At a house on the east side of the city, some of those living on less are doing a little more. “I’m doing what I was meant to be, you know, being a practicing, creative artist,” said Kateri Pomeroy, a Nashville artist. She uses the studio space at Poverty for the Arts. Pomeroy and her husband Sam are two of the first artists to join POVA, as it’s known. Sam was finishing up a wood sculpture he’s been working on. POVA was started by Nicole Minard as a way to help people who didn’t have access to art supplies and studio space. “I really saw the breadth of talent so many people on the streets had, and I would get questions like, ‘how can I get my art in a coffee shop?’ or ‘people see me drawing on the street every day, how do I get it to them without a cop pulling up and stopping me?’” said Minard. Minard provides the space, and the supplies for people who want to create art and she helps them sell it. POVA pays artists 60 percent of the selling price. They reinvest the other 40 percent into rent and supplies. “In those five years since we’ve started, we’ve served over 75 different artists and we’ve paid out over ,000 to artists on the street,” said Minard. The program gives exposure for artists who otherwise wouldn't have it. “If you don’t have the right school, the right gallery, the right representation, you really don’t get seen,” said Bandy For those that use the space to paint, draw or scribble, POVA is a place to prove they belong, even if they've known their potential all along. Edwin Lockridge was born with a paintbrush in his hand. “My parents actually have pictures of me, photographs of me as a baby with a pen and paper in my hands,” said Lockridge. But life has been rough for him and his family. “My mother and my father both have Alzheimer's bad, excuse me. I admit that I’m not in the best of health myself,” Lockridge said. To him, POVA is a matter of life and death. “The revenue from my art buys art supplies, medicine, necessary stuff to keep me alive for my basic survival," said Lockridge. For Pomeroy, Bandy and Lockridge, POVA provides opportunities they could not have thought possible. “This place has given me a transfusion, a new blood, and a new way to live" said Pomeroy. “We are family,” said Bandt. “There are no words, there are no words. This is my extended family without a doubt,” said Lockridge.That sense of family and community is a work of art no one can put a price on.   2838

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