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Chicago White Sox manager Ricky Renteria will not be coaching against Cleveland tonight after waking up with a cough and nasal congestion.The team says Renteria underwent a COVID-19 test at a Cleveland hospital on Monday. He will not manage until he gets the results.The Indians are scheduled to start a home series against the White Sox Monday evening.This all comes on the heels of at least 14 Miami Marlins players, employees and coaches testing positive for the virus. The Marlins and the Philadelphia Phillies have canceled their game tonight due to the number of Marlins who tested positive. RELATED: Marlins, Phillies cancel games amid COVID-19 outbreak fears This article was written by Courtney Shaw for WEWS. 741

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

Refoundry helps give formerly incarcerated people a second chance. Now they’re giving back in a special way, helping protect people behind bars during the pandemic.Refoundry's mission is giving people a second chance by providing skills and opportunity. The nonprofit, created by Cisco Pinedo and Tommy Safian, trains formerly incarcerated people to repurpose discarded materials into home furnishings. Their program is structured into three stages over the period, starting off with placement in a living wage job ending with mentorship that could lead to business ownership.So far, 10 businesses have started with the help of Refoundry, giving jobs to more than 125 people.Back in 2016, Scripps station WPIX in New York visited Refoundry in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Now, they’re adding another effort to their outreach as a result of the pandemic and putting the Refoundry onsite program on hiatus during the lockdown."We launched something called ‘Makers Make Masks,’ that enlists formerly incarcerated people that are homebound because of the pandemic to help combat a public health crisis by sewing reusable washable masks for the most vulnerable people in our society the incarcerated and the homeless," explained Safian.The masks are being donated to homeless support services in Los Angeles and at Rikers Island in New York, where more than 850 masks have already been delivered.The Refoundry set up 20 formerly incarcerated workers with sewing machines, pre-cut fabrics, technical support and training with the help of grants and donations.“This allows… people with the opportunity to demonstrate their value,” explained Safian “to themselves and to their community and to society ... it really does mean a lot."Once the pandemic is over, Refoundry plans on launching a second location Los Angeles and moving into a new space at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Safian said they expect to have around 45 formerly incarcerated people training at each location when they relaunch.Click here for more information on how you can help support Refoundry and their "Makers Make Masks" program. This article was written by Tamsen Fadal and Juan Carlos Molina for WPIX. 2182

DENVER, Colo. – Amanda Dufresne Lee is a sexual assault survivor. “I was on my daily run training for my first half marathon when I was attacked, beaten and attacked by a stranger,” Dufresne Lee said. It happened in August of 2003. She was a college student in Waco, Texas. While she was running, something hit her head from behind and she fell to the ground. “Then I turned to put my hand up thinking someone would help me up,” said Dufresne Lee. “And instead he picked me up by my throat.” Nearly two decades later, her memory of the traumatic experience unfortunately hasn’t faded. “I narrowly escaped with my life by rolling myself over a small cliff and running half-clothed to safety,” Dufresne Lee said. “I like to say that was the easy part, and everything following that was an absolute nightmare.” Dufresne Lee had PTSD so severe she became an insomniac, and it took her years to feel safe again. “I struggled to go to parking lots, because I felt like strangers were going to attack me,” Dufresne Lee said. However, she says there is part of her story she looks back on in a positive way. “I had two incredible nurses who were empathetic and warm and kind and patient who were there for me in absence of family or friends,” she said. Following her assault, Dufresne Lee was treated by a specific type of forensic nurse, known as a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner – SANE for short. “A lot of people don’t know what they’re allowed to receive, what they can receive, what they can ask for. That’s the best part about being a SANE nurse is giving my patients that choice and that right back. And letting them know what is available to them,” UCHealth SANE nurse Tammy Scarlett said. Tammy Scarlett has been a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner for nearly five years. She currently works at UCHealth Memorial Hospital in Colorado Springs, Colorado. She says she treats both men and women of all ages, but a majority of her patients are adult women. The exam varies depending on each situation. First, they address any medical concerns, and then they go through a history of what happened. Following that, the lengthy and intimate exam starts. “That’s where we check out any genitalia making sure there’s no injury. We can collect evidence, and we can do photo documentation as well,” Scarlett said. Dufresne Lee says the exam took even longer for her because her body kept going into shock, and she’d start violently shaking all over. "It’s incredibly invasive. Many women – myself included – describe it as being re-traumatized because they are combing through everything looking for evidence,” Dufresne Lee said. However, that evidence is necessary to find the offender and get justice. SANE nurses are able to provide one-on-one care. And that’s why Jennifer Pierce-Weeks – the Chief Executive Officer of the 2826

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