Last Surviving Member of ‘Memphis State Eight’ Pens Memoirs

It took more than 30 years for Bertha R. Looney
to write about her harrowing experience after
desegregating the former Memphis State University.

MEMPHIS, TN – Bertha Rogers Looney is the last surviving member of the “Memphis State Eight,” a group of Black students who broke the color barrier in the fall of 1959 when they enrolled at Memphis State University. 

That year, 4,500 students had enrolled at the university. Among them were Looney (who enrolled as Bertha Rogers), Rose Blakney, Marvis L. Kneeland, Ralph Prater, Eleanor Gandy, Luther C. McClellan, John Simpson, and Sammie Burnett.

This was the fourth attempt by Black students to desegregate the university. Five tried and failed in 1954. Two others were denied admission to graduate school in 1957. And four were denied in 1958, including Kneeland, Prater and Burnett.

In her book, “We Dared to be First: Memoirs of a Memphis State Eight Trailblazer” (GrantHouse Publishers 2026), Looney captures in words and photographs her own trailblazing experience.

It took more than 30 years for Looney to enshrine her experience in print, having worked intermittently on the book. “I had to take care for my mom and my brother,” she said. “I was still writing, but I didn’t know what form the writing would take.”

Looney said George Grant of GrantHouse Publishers urged her and the others to write about their experiences in 2011 after one of the eight, Sammie Burnett, had died. “He said it would be good to have it as a record at the [current] University of Memphis,” she said. 

Looney was keeping a record, but it wasn’t coming together just yet — even after the deaths of Blakney, Kneeland, Prater, Gandy, Simpson, and McClellan. Now, as the sole survivor, the book is finally published.

Looney, Blakney and Kneeland were graduates of Hamilton High School; Gandy and Prater, Douglass High School; McClellan and Simpson, Manassas High School; and Burnett, Booker T. Washington High School.

“It was difficult,” said Looney, recounting her experience. “I was surprised that I even went, because I kept telling Mr. (Jesse) Turner (Sr.), who was recruiting students along with the principals of the various high schools, that I didn’t want to be a part of that.”

She wanted to attend Fisk University or LeMoyne College instead. But Turner and other members of the NAACP, including attorneys A.W. Willis, H.T. Lockard, and with assistance from Atty. Constance Baker Motley, needed the group to desegregate the all-white university.

“My father wasn’t able to send me to Fisk,” she said. “I’d been accepted at LeMoyne; that’s where I was going. But Mr. Turner kept calling, calling, and calling. He said, ‘This will be the fourth attempt to get students into Memphis State.’”

Their first day of class was Sept.18, 1959. But nothing was copesthetic. “[It was] the isolation,” she said. “It was eight of us, and, of course, none of us were in the same classes together. [And] we were escorted to class by plainclothes police officers.”

But the eight Black students dared to be first. They succeeded at the behest and ingenuity of Turner, the NAACP, and the cadre of attorneys hellbent on challenging the cruel system of segregation.

Looney’s first major was math. Then she changed it to Business Education, and finally to English. “I didn’t do well as I wanted to in school. I didn’t function as well,” she said. “But I persevered. And I’m glad that I did.” 

They all left indelible legacies at the university, which was renamed the University of Memphis in 1994. A historical marker on the campus sums up their experiences as the “Memphis State Eight.” 

For copies of Bertha R. Looney’s book, contact her at blooney609@yahoo.com or the publisher at granthousepub@aol.com.

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved. 

Reparations Back on the Table for Discussion

Reparations once again is the topic of discussion by community
leaders. From left: the Rev. Dr. Kevin C. Peterson (kneeling),
Dr. Carnita Atwater, Tonae Williams, the Rev. Dr. Earle J.
Fisher, Dr. Malcom J. Bryant, and Karen Spencer-McGhee.
(Photo by Wiley Henry)

MEMPHIS, TN – Reparations has been debated and bandied around Congress for more than 35 years after the late U.S. Congressman John Conyers first introduced H.R. 40 (Commission to Study and Develop Reparation Proposals for African-Americans Act).

Originally introduced in 1989 as H.R. 3745, Conyers continued to re-introduce legislation during each congressional session until his death in 2019. Each time, the case for reparations failed to gain any traction in the Halls of Congress other than study bills and an apology for slavery and Jim Crow laws.

“We are the only people on American soil who were lynched, stolen, raped, killed, our religion taken away from us, and our family broken up,” said Dr. Carnita Atwater, a former gubernatorial candidate. “We are the only people who haven’t gotten reparations.”

Atwater called out specific groups who received some form of federal reparations: the Jews, Japanese Americans, Native Americans, she said, but not African Americans who have yet to be compensated.

On Thursday (Oct. 22), Atwater hosted a community conversation on reparations and premiered a documentary titled “Reparations Untold: An American Story” by the Rev. Dr. Kevin C. Peterson of Boston at Atwater’s Kukutana African American History Museum in North Memphis. 

Peterson, who wrote and produced the film, is the founder of “Faneuil Hall Race + Reconciliation Project.” He began his work on reparations in Boston, where he graduated in 2024 from the Boston University School of Theology.

In addition to the film, Peterson, the Rev. Dr. Earle J. Fisher, senior pastor of Abyssinian Baptist Church in Memphis, and Dr. Malcolm J. Bryant, a retired educator from Memphis who taught at the University of Massachusetts and Boston’s public schools, co-hosted the “community conversation” with Atwater. 

In 2020, Atwater filed a $20 billion class action lawsuit in Chancery Court in Memphis, charging government officials with “genocide and generational neglect, gentrification and displacement, environmental injustice and disparities.” 

On Peterson’s “Reparations Nation: The Podcast” recently, Atwater reiterated her views on reparations and her unyielding fight to see it come to past. She has been one of the leaders in Memphis pushing for reparations and believes that solidarity among African Americans is the key to repairing more than 400 years of damage. 

“Until we come together, we are going to die and not receive reparations,” Atwater said.

Peterson is also seeking redress for damages and a pathway to reparations. He calls it a fight for reparative justice in America. “Reparations are not new, they’re due,” said Peterson, also an author, civic leader, coach, and consultant. 

He hopes to move the conversation “from awareness to action” and moderated a panel discussion featuring community activist Karen Spencer-McGhee, Bryant, Fisher, 11-year-old Tonae Williams, and Atwater as well.

To some people, reparations mean receiving payment in U.S. currency or land acquisition. Bryant, however, equates reparations with acquiring political power. “We need political power in North America right now,” he said.

Atwater sought out Jonae from the audience and beckoned her to sit on the panel. She wanted to hear a child’s perspective on reparations. But Tonae, the granddaughter of author Patricia Lee, was a little shy. 

The concept of reparations seemed too difficult for the 11-year-old to grasp. But Fisher was at Tonae’s side giving her monetary examples to help her understand what it means when something is taken away and restored.

“How would you feel if you had $125 dollars and I take it?” Fisher asked Tonae. “If I gave it back to you would you be satisfied?”

Tonae muttered the answer to Fisher’s question. “No. I’ll be mad,” she said. 

“She understands,” Fisher said.

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved.

George Tillman Remembered for Capturing Black History on Film

 

Dr. Noel G. L. Hutchinson Jr. delivers the eulogy for filmmaker
George W. Tillman at First Baptist Church-Lauderdale.
Photo by Wiley Henry 

MEMPHIS, TN – Two hours may be a little long for a funeral. But since it was George Whitaker Tillman’s funeral, time wasn’t a factor those who extolled Tillman as a top-notch athlete and par excellence filmmaker.

“George was a borderline genius,” Tillman’s eulogist, Dr. Noel G. L. Hutchinson Jr., declared. “I want us to reflect on who we had among us,” he told the assembly at First Baptist Church-Lauderdale.

Tillman died from congestive heart failure on Sept. 12. He was 71. 

He was the consummate filmmaker, documentarian, and “trendsetter,” said Hutchinson, and added: “The Lord moved upon George to tell our stories — such as ‘The Lucky Eleven.’” 

“The Lucky Eleven” chronicles the journey of 11 Southside High School graduates in Memphis who played football for Fisk University in the early 1970s. Tillman was a teammate who matriculated at Fisk on both a track and football scholarship. 

“Out of the Lucky Eleven, six of us went to the NFL,” said Andre Jackson, a member of the football team at Fisk. “Now it’s only three of us left out of the eleven.” 

A knee injury sidelined Tillman during his senior year, thus ending a promising football career and an opportunity to play for the Green Bay Packers. This and other reflections were recounted by those who knew him well. 

“George was a man of all seasons who fulfilled his purpose,” said Dr. David L. Acey Sr., a longtime educator, activist, and co-founder of the African in April Cultural Awareness Festival, Inc.

While Tillman was passionate about football, it was fate that steered him down the path to filmmaking after watching the movie “Wattstax” with his classmates. This time, his passion was kindled with a purpose. 

Memphis and Shelby County Film Commissioner Lynn Sitler had no idea that Tillman was a star athlete on the gridiron. But she knew of his work behind the camera documenting Black history. 

“He did it in such a way that everybody wanted to learn,” she said.

Sitler recalled her first time meeting Tillman in the late 1980s when he was a newbie in filmdom promoting “The Last Buffalo Soldier,” a story about an all-Black regiment of the U.S. Army in 1866. 

“I had never heard of the Buffalo Soldiers,” she said. “That’s how important George’s work was.” 

Tillman began creating movies and writing scripts in 1987. In 1988, Sitler introduced him to Steven J. Ross, professor emeritus of film and video at the University of Memphis. Ross’s mentorship proved beneficial to Tillman’s expanded knowledge of filmmaking.

“That pretty much launched George’s film career,” Sitler said. 

George Barnes said he and Tillman were longtime friends and “dreamers,” and pursued different goals as adults. “I was a hairdresser. He was a filmmaker,” he said. “We had a lot in common.”

Tillman was known to recruit his friends to work with him on film projects. “He was relentless in his pursuit of what he wanted to do,” said Barnes, who worked with Tillman on “Birth of Soul Music” and “Jump Rope Girls.”

Barnes had so much to say about his friend but was admonished to cut his reflections short. “You can’t tell it all,” someone in the pulpit quipped.

Hutchinson was now ready to deliver Tillman’s eulogy and began with these words: “Every life preaches a sermon.” Then he gave his message a title: “The world was not worthy of George Tillman.”

Hutchison surmised that no one else was documenting Black history when Tillman began his film career. “Look at what George went through to tell our story,” he said, referencing the obstacles that would stop others in their tracks.

Even though funding for Tillman’s projects was often insufficient, or non-existent — in addition to his struggle with an illness — he was compelled to tell stories anyway in spite of the obstacles and naysayers.

“You have to embrace who you are,” Hutchinson told the assembly. “You can’t let people define who you are. We have to tell our stories and more of them.”

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved. 

Enhancing the barbering experience

Marzel Broderick Ragland, also known as “Z,” employs 

his Z4 Crosscut Razorline Method to shave Quincy Griffin. 

(Photo courtesy of Marzel Broderick Ragland)

MEMPHIS, TN – Marzel Broderick Ragland has been trimming hair professionally for 21 years — in his own barbershop, of course, at 5743 Nanjack Circle in Southeast Memphis. Two other barbers work alongside him.

Z4 Razor, the name of Ragland’s barbershop, was derived from a shaving technique he calls The Z4 Crosscut Razorline Method, which is a system of shaving a particular area in different directions with a straight razor.

“Depending on the area being shaved,” the voice of a woman explains in a video on YouTube, “a series of four different strokes are applied to complete the Z4 method of multi-directional shaving. The four strokes are Freehand, Reverse Freehand, Backhand, and Reverse Backhand.”

While touting the Z4 method of multi-directional shaving, the woman says this: “The technique enhances the barber’s skill level and maximizes client satisfaction,” which has a couple of Ragland’s customers singing his praises.

Markhum L. “Mark” Stansbury Sr., a longtime radio personality at WDIA AM 1070, has been singing Ragland’s praises for over a decade. “I first met him when he was over on Shelby Drive,” he says. “He’s very, very customer oriented.”

Stansbury is one of Ragland’s many customers from his A-list of notables. Another one is Bishop Edward H. Stephens Jr., senior pastor of Golden Gate Cathedral. He first met Ragland through his sons. 

“I would hear them talking,” he says, referring to his sons Edward III, Eron, and Evan. “They kept saying ‘Z.’ They were teenagers [or older] then. I asked, ‘Who is Z?’ It wasn’t anything negative. It was always positive.”

Based on the accolades his sons heaped upon Ragland, Stephens thought he would try him after learning his own barber was out of town. “Z is a man that would garner any man’s respect,” he says. “I respected him before I met him.”

Ragland began his foray into barbering when he was a mere 8-year-old lad living with his mother and two brothers in the former Hurt Village housing project before the area was razed and transformed into Uptown Memphis.

“I was just trying to stay out of trouble,” he says. 

Hurt Village had been a hotspot for troubled youth, and drugs had ensnared too many of them. Ragland was there in the midst but rebuffed that crowd. So, he didn’t succumb to the lure or their mindset of waywardness.

Barbering was Ragland’s way out of pending trouble. His mother had owned a pair of clippers, he recalls, and used it to cut his hair. His classmates mocked him and an altercation ensued. After his mother laid hands to his backside before his peers, he apologized. 

Ragland thought he was in trouble again after fetching the clippers from his mother’s room to trim his brother’s hair. Instead, he recalls her saying, “I’m going to give you the case, the comb, the guard, everything. As long as you stay true to these clippers, you’ll never go hungry.”

Since then, Ragland has never looked back and continues to forge ahead with a deeper understanding of his mother’s enduring words and those who mentored him. Now he’s giving back to the young men and women who could not escape the lure of criminal activity.

“I think that’s very good to take an interest in young people—especially young men,” says Stansbury. “He always talks about them when we’re in the shop. He’s just a nice Christian gentleman.”

Ragland often steers the conversation toward mentoring youth and teaching them about the vicissitudes of life. For 15 years, he’s worked inside penitentiaries and juvenile facilities cutting their hair.

“I cut their hair and mentor them as well. And I have my instructor’s license,” he says proudly. “I feel like I can be a great asset. I’m just trying to do my part.”

“Z is a cutting-edge gentleman,” Stephens says. “I can sum him up as authentic manhood.”

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved.

Reflections of ‘Bloody Sunday’ from the daughters of a foot soldier

John Pearlie Pettaway, who was nearly caught 
up in the melee on ‘Bloody Sunday,’ and his 
daughter, Cheryl Pettaway Colvin. (Photo
courtesy of the Pettaway family) 

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the second installment of a two-part series on the life and legacy of John Pearlie Pettaway.

 

MEMPHIS, TN – On March 7, 1965, pandemonium swept across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Ala. From John Pearlie Pettaway’s vantage point at the foot of the bridge, he could see a horde of people scattering in fear and trepidation.

“Dad never got to cross the bridge that day,” said Cheryl Pettaway Colvin, recalling the fury that her father described on that fateful day. “As he was standing at the foot of the bridge, he said he saw people at the top turning in slow motion.” 

Colvin illustrated the horrid scene based on her father’s recollection. “He said it was almost the way it looks in a hunter’s eyes when one shoots into a pack of birds. They ripple off to avoid being shot.”

Fearing the worst, Pettaway broke and ran. “He always told the story that he and his friend, Dan Jones, out-ran everybody,” said Brenda Pettaway Henderson, the oldest of Pettaway and Jeanette James Pettaway’s four children.

Henderson was on the scene near the bridge. At 15, she was actively involved in the movement and marching with the adults. “All I could think about was getting home,” she said. “I was not going to the church, because you didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Returning to Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church, where marchers had begun their trek, wasn’t Henderson’s first thought. So, she ran and kept running. “Everywhere you went you heard sirens. I was scared,” she said unabashedly. “The church was a safe place, but home was safer.”

Pettaway finally made it home to the George Washington Carver housing projects, where the Pettaway family and other civil rights leaders and marchers lived. “He said, ‘We got to get your mom,’” who was working at The Walton Theater. “So, he went and got my brother and my two sisters.”

When Pettaway returned home with his wife and children, he exited the car and encountered burly state troopers on horseback. “He (state trooper) pulled that horse in front of my dad and that horse reared,” Henderson said.

The brute size of the white man straddling a huge horse frightened Henderson. She thought he was going to beat them. “We’re just trying to get to the house,” she remembered her father telling the state trooper. “I remember him (state trooper) saying, ‘You better get there fast! Right now! And you better not come back out!’”

 What transpired on that day in Selma was echoed around the world, etched in the annals of American history, and seared into the consciousness of the surviving foot soldiers. Known as “Bloody Sunday,” that day was absolute mayhem.

The Civil Rights Movement also yielded innumerable arrests. But Pettaway, Henderson said, was never arrested. But she was arrested once, taken by patty wagon to a detention site, and released after 12 hours. 

Henderson contends that detention was a horrible experience for some detainees. “Girls were actually raped in those jails,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Boys were raped too,” Colvin added. “I had the opportunity to interview people in Marion, Ala., who had been raped. Many people didn’t want their names mentioned. They didn’t want that over their heads.”

When Colvin moved back to Selma after a stint elsewhere, she learned more about her father as his caregiver. “I got to understand why he did certain things,” she said. “He said I was different — not in an admirable way.”

Colvin loves farming, riding horses, the outdoors, and once sheared sheep. Her father, she said, abhorred that life. “He didn’t want his children to ever become farmers. He wanted all of us in school to get an education.”

 

Both Henderson and Colvin did just that.

 

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved.

John P. Pettaway ferried freedom fighters to mass meetings in Selma

John Pearlie Pettaway and his daughters, Cheryl Pettaway
Colvin (left) and Brenda Pettaway Henderson (right).
Photo courtesy of the Pettaway family.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the first installment of a two-part series on the life and legacy of John Pearlie Pettaway, who left an indelible mark on Selma, Ala., during the Civil Rights Movement.

 

MEMPHIS, TN – The late John Pearlie Pettaway was 95 years old when the pastor at Shiloh Missionary Baptist Church in Selma, Ala., eulogized him on May 31, 2025. After the service, he was laid to rest in Pineview Memory Gardens in Valley Grande, Ala.

Pettaway was a deacon at Shiloh and had a penchant for singing. But he was more than that to Cheryl Pettaway Colvin and Brenda Pettaway Henderson, who remember their father as a foot soldier in Selma during the turbulent Civil Rights Movement.

“He was a master of many trades,” added Colvin, the youngest of Pettaway and his wife Jeanette James Pettaway’s four children, including Ronald Pettaway, who is deceased, and Deborah Pettaway.

Pettaway was born in Autauga County, Ala., on April 20, 1929, according to his birth certificate. But he would use May 20, 1929, as his date of birth. However, before his death on May 16, 2025, he’d eked out a modest living and raised a family, even during perilous times for a Black man in Selma.  

In Selma, Pettaway was known for his work ethics. It wasn’t unusual for him to work several jobs and purchase vehicles to repair for resale. His last position was with Maxwell-Gunter Air Force Base in Montgomery, Ala. He was also an entrepreneur and drove a cab.

But it was Pettaway’s work in the movement that garnered the most attention and kindled in Colvin and Henderson fond memories and a sense of pride. He didn’t march, per se, but he was active, nonetheless.

When Henderson was born, Jeanette James was 15 and living with her mother. But that didn’t stop Pettaway from visiting his first born. “I was 10 years old when he and my mom married,” she said. 

Henderson described her father as kind, the “fun-type,” and interactive. “He made sure I got to school…had food…and got my homework done,” she said, recalling when he escorted her to the debutante’s ball. 

“Everybody loved my dad,” Colvin added.

Pettaway drove the cab at night for both South Wind Cab Company and Deluxe Cab Company. His passengers included freedom fighters for whom he would ferry to Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church and First Baptist Church for mass meetings in Selma.

Pettaway met a white woman from up North who was intrigued by Southern culture. She was a woman of means, Henderson said. “I can remember her saying, ‘You know, I need my daughter to be a part of this.’” 

Colvin was relatively young at that time but could sort through a few names of people who fought for justice and a few who visited the Pettaway home, such as “Jennifer,” the white woman’s daughter.

“She was a very small and timid white girl who lived in the same house with us. She slept in the same bed with me,” said Henderson, who eventually became a foot soldier herself. A retired educator, she is the current chair of Elmore County Democratic Party.

When Rev. James Reeb, a white Unitarian Universalist minister and civil rights activist from Boston, came to Selma in 1965 to participate in the marches for voting rights, “My dad brought him to the house with his good friend,” Henderson said. “He came to the house twice.”

On March 9, white segregationists brutally beat Rev. Reeb following "Bloody Sunday” two days earlier. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who had urged the minister to come to Selma, delivered his eulogy at Brown Chapel.

Pettaway himself was nearly caught up in the melee on the Edmund Pettus Bridge. He was fortunate, though, because he’d hung back at the foot of the bridge and ran for his life.

Though Colvin was born in 1962, she was cognizant of the movement via stories that were told by her father and sister. She is now active in the Annual Foot Soldiers Breakfast Foundation in Selma. 

“I appreciate Mr. Charles Mauldin, the founder,” said Colvin, a certified end-of-life doula providing support to individuals during their final days. “He has done a superb job of making certain that foot soldiers receive recognition.”

Copyright 2026 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved.

Struggles of Childhood Trauma: The Princess Washington Story

Princess Washington (Photo by Wiley Henry)

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is the first installment of a two-part series about childhood trauma that Princess Washington knows all too well.

 

MEMPHIS, TN – The probability of Princess Washington succeeding in life after experiencing childhood trauma — poverty, neglect, bullying, and merely surviving in a tempestuous household with her drug-addicted mother — is statistically unlikely in some cases.

Washington was seven years old and suffering ill effects from ACEs, an acronym for Adverse Childhood Experiences. According to the CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention), about 64 percent of American adults had experienced one ACE. Women are impacted the most. 

While living in Section 8 housing with her two younger brothers in Clarksdale, MS., Washington’s ACEs were apparent: poverty, neglect, emotional abuse, etc. Despite this fact, even at her tender age, she innately assumed the role of caregiver. 

The choices Washington was compelled to make were predicated upon the harsh conditions that she and her brothers were forced to endure. Her mother, she explained, was battling her demons and often left them unattended.

“That was the norm,” said Washington, 43, whose father was absent from the home. But then her survival instincts kicked in. “I was trying to figure out what we were going to eat. Sometimes we ate. Sometimes we didn’t.”

Hunger pangs constantly gnawed at her. In addition to strangers coming in and out of the home, fear engulfed her as well — because crack cocaine, her mother’s demon, was wreaking havoc all around her.

Washington longed for stability, security, and a safe place to live. Her maternal grandmother, prompted to intervene posthaste, whisked her granddaughter away from potential danger. 

Her grandmother also lived in Section 8 housing with her son, Washington’s uncle, who struggled mightily with an addiction himself, she said. He is one of her grandmother’s 10 children.

“At some point, the state of Mississippi stepped in and wanted to remove my brothers from my mother's care,” she said. “They ended up coming to live with us.”

With her uncle in the home, Washington’s fears resurfaced. “He tried to kill everybody in the house,” she said. “He had poured diesel fuel all the way down the hallway. He had already blown all the pilot lights out and turned the gas on.”

Washington remembered him lighting a match to his bedroom. She said another uncle was on the scene and confronted him. “They were tussling in the hallway. By that time the fire had reached the hallway.”

The family was literally trapped, unable to flee. But Washington’s grandmother managed to hustle her grandchildren into her bedroom to fling them out the window to safety. But a heavy dresser, she recalled, was blocking their escape.

“There was nowhere else in the house we could go,” she said.

Washington’s grandmother was a praying woman — an evangelist in tuned to God. And out of the ether, the family was spared. Because of his dastardly deeds, her uncle was institutionalized, treated, and released.

After that harrowing ordeal, the uncle was allowed to return to the household. Years later, something stirred in him again. Washington’s older brother, who was raised by his grandmother, was there at the apartment when that same uncle went haywire.

“They started tussling,” she said. A cousin, who was there too, “took off running” and jumped out a bedroom window. Washington followed. They ran, screaming, to an aunt’s apartment nearby.

Washington was 14 when her mother, still battling drugs, birthed another child. Her grandmother would take in her baby sister as well. She said it was an added responsibility that her grandmother didn’t need.

Her grandmother, however, knew what to do in this predicament: pray. 

Copyright 2025 TNTRIBUNE. All rights reserved.