By DONALD DeMARCO
The last thing that interested Monique Dostie was achieving status as a national celebrity. Her chosen profession seemingly guaranteed that such status would not only be unlikely, but impossible. She had hidden herself away in the sleepy town of Lewiston, Maine, where she operated a small group home for developmentally disabled adults. She lived in the Jaricot Foster Home, as it was called, and offered full-time care for its four residents.
The Home offered quality care to its residents. But also provided a good moral atmosphere. It was precisely the moral values the home honored that led guardians of the residents to place them at the Jaricot Foster Home. There were “rules,” to be sure, including the prohibition of sexual activities and the use of pornographic magazines and videos.
Everything was relatively peaceful at this small home. None of the residents — whose level of maturity is comparable to that of three to five-year-olds — ever complained about the rules. But bureaucrats representing the Department of Human Services in the State of Maine were not happy with Dostie’s “rules.”
According to DHS rules, mentally retarded and autistic adults who live in a group home have the right to participate in sexual activities of their choice, including viewing pornographic magazines and tapes, and engaging in sexual relations with selected partners. And if the residents want to participate in group sex, the home is obliged to set aside a room specifically for that purpose.
In May of 1998, a war of “rules” began between the Jaricot Foster Home and the Maine Department of Human Services. The state agency urged Monique Dostie to reclassify her “rules” as “guidelines.” As a consequence of Dostie’s refusal to comply, the state held a hearing at which it ruled that she must comply or face the revocation of her license. Nonetheless, Dostie, a devout Catholic, indicated that she could not, in conscience, betray her wards by exposing them to activities that could be emotionally ruinous to them. According to Ms. Dostie, her developmentally disabled wards cannot handle decisions of daily living, let alone the complex atmosphere that promiscuous sexual relationships would create.
Moreover, as Dostie went on to explain, it is not the residents that are requesting sex and pornography, “it’s the state that’s mandating it.” Robert Steinberg, assistant director of licensing and certification with the DHS, stated that residents of group homes may not exercise their sexual rights, but are entitled to them, nonetheless.
With help from a Catholic group, she appealed the decision. In the meantime, the feud between Dostie and DHS began to attract national attention. The June 2, 1999, edition of The Washington Post, for example, informed its readers that the Department of Human Services was threatening to cancel the license of this home for mentally retarded adults in Maine unless Monique Dostie agreed to allow sexual activities among her wards.
Joni Fritz, who is the executive director of the American Network of Community Options and Resources representing group homes, has accused Dostie of “denying human sexuality.” Curt Decker, executive director of the National Association of Protection and Advocacy Systems for people with disabilities in Washington, has stated that the biases of Monique Dostie should not overtake the choices of individuals.
Presumably, the Catholic position Dostie holds, no matter how well thought out, is a bias, whereas the choices of developmentally disabled individuals, no matter how impetuous, are self-justifying.
Dostie, however, remained firm. “I teach that it’s wrong [indiscriminate sex], that they don’t need that to survive. I teach them their faith and bring God into their lives.”
There was considerable public opinion that supported Dostie. Some complained that certain people were denied a license to have a boarding home because they would not permit promiscuous sexual activities. Others complained that they could not find a “sex-free” home where they could lodge their own developmentally disabled children. Some raised the issue of pedophilia, since many adults who are mentally retarded have the emotional maturity of a child.
The appeal, however, did not take place. Thanks to the national attention the dispute had received, agents for a home for the developmentally disabled in Purgitsville, West Virginia, saw in Monique Dostie the kind of person they were looking for. They offered her a position working at their 212-acre mountaintop farm where she would live and work with six mentally retarded adults. Dostie was elated: “Everything we wanted to accomplish was living and well in West Virginia, and looking for help.”
It all came about “strictly by the Providence of God.” Dostie will merge the Jaricot Foster Home with the mountaintop operation.
Dedication is an admirable virtue, especially when it is directed to the needs of other people. But its effectiveness cannot be sustained without integrity. When we compromise our dedication — for political, practical, or personal reasons — we compromise the quality of service we provide those to whom we are dedicated.
The members of Maine’s Department of Human Services did not object to Dostie’s dedication. It was her integrity that caused them consternation. But Dostie abided accusations of being “unbending,” “unrepentant,” and “violating the rights of others.” And now, thanks to her integrity, she is in a position to dedicate herself to helping more people, and without interference from the state of West Virginia.
Those who are in her care will not think of her as a heroine. They will no doubt think of this 31-year-old woman as did those at her former home, as “Mom.” But to outsiders, particularly to Catholics, she is a heroine since she fought an eighteen-month war against powerful bureaucrats and did not allow them to compromise either her dedication or her integrity. She is a heroine because she made sure that virtue triumphed over temptation.
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