ABSTRACT
When I met Clark, the identity that he was struggling with was not one that had to do with his sexual preference, but quite another one—that of rapist. Clark had been confined for six years, four and a half at the treatment center where I met him. He was thirty-two years old, a high school graduate, the divorced father of a little girl. His worst brush with the law before his arrest had been a traffic ticket, yet his crime had been a serious one—aggravated rape. He was a large man, six feet two inches, dark skinned, with broad shoulders set on a lean but muscular frame, and with biceps that reflected the many hours he put in at the gym. Clark referred to himself as black rather than African-American and his story follows his usage. But I could not help but think that his overall look—nose slightly aquiline, the shadow of a beard that just barely outlined his mouth and chin, his size and bearing—could make him a fit subject for the portrait of an African prince. I think my impression reflected the rapport that, early on, was established between us. Even in our first session, Clark seemed candid and forthcoming, rather than defensive. Plus, he showed evidence of an engaging sense of humor.
