Underneath It All

Photographer Misty Keasler wants you to know about the people she’s met. She wants you to feel the struggle of the young heroin junkies in Plano. She wants you to see the reflection of a twenty-year-old dying from cancer in Lewisville. She wants you to see the light in the eyes of the impoverished orphans in Romania. She wants to make you think.

Bard of the Border

LINCOLN PARK IS GONE. DISAPPEARED. We are rolling along in Oscar Casares’ maroon Toyota Tacoma, searching for the place where a decent portion of his teenage days was spent shooting hoops, flirting with girls, and picking fights now and then. We pass the Lopez Supermarket, the housing project where his first girlfriend lived, the community clinic where sick people spend entire afternoons in waiting rooms.

A Q&A With Hilary Duff

texasmonthly.com: How has your life changed since Lizzie McGuire?

Hilary Duff: My life has changed tremendously, mostly if I trip or spill something I am nervous everyone saw it! There is a lot of privilege as well as responsibility when you are on TV. I have met amazing people like Nelson Mandela and Steven Tyler but I live a very normal life. I do chores around the house and take care of my pets and go to school like all of my friends.

Linda Ellerbee

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which I know has special significance for you. When was your cancer first diagnosed?

In February of 1992. I lost both my breasts and all my hair. My hair happily grew back. And I lived!

Dawn

In the June 1991 issue, in an article called “Voices From the Dark,” I told the story of Dawn, my mother-in-law. It was an account of her brief career as a singer in Hollywood in the late forties, how schizophrenia had brought that career to a tragic end, and how my wife, Tara, had tried since she was a little girl to care for her. A couple of years after the story appeared, Dawn called Tara from the Granger medical facility where she lived.

Shaggy

Sweat drips off Nancy “Shaggy” Moore’s face as she lifts the front leg of a horse, coaxes the animal into bending it at the knee, clamps it between her own legs, and drives a nail through the hoof. “I went to horseshoe school for six weeks in the mid-nineties. One girl in a class with nineteen guys—tell me I didn’t like that,” she says with a laugh. “I’m such a perfectionist, though. I wanted to be the best, but it took me eight hours to do two shoes. Three weeks in, my body started to give out.

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