Henningsen's contributions to Milwaukee are right on the money

Margaret Henningsen became executive director of the Women's Fund of Greater Milwaukee on Aug. 15, 2011. Formerly the executive vice president of Legacy Bancorp, which she co-founded in 1997, Henningsen has a long history in Milwaukee's finance and real estate worlds.

And Henningsen has an even longer history of social justice activism. Whether as a student activist involved in civil rights protests, arguing for and receiving mortgage loans for black families as a real estate broker or as co-founder of a bank that specifically provided services to traditionally under-served groups, she has brought the objective of social change to all her work.

The Women's Fund of Greater Milwaukee, which celebrated its 25th year in 2011, develops women leaders and helps create social change through women and girls by contributing to a variety of programs, which include the Social Change Exchange, the Women of Color Fundraising Network, Cultures of Giving and the Black Infant Mortality Project.

The Black Infant Mortality Project is the work of a 60-member coalition seeking to address why Milwaukee has one of the highest black infant mortality rates in the country.

"This has nothing to do with the behavior of the mother," Henningsen says. "The project stresses deeper relationships between economics and racism, as even higher income black women have higher infant mortality rates."

Donations account for 99 percent of the money that the Women's Fund pools and redistributes in grants. The fund does not receive any money from the city or county.

"Milwaukeeans are very philanthropic-minded, but some of them feel they're not seeing enough progress," she says.

Henningsen feels that Milwaukee in particular is currently experiencing donor burn-out. As the financial crisis continues, Henningsen believes that some non-profits will need to form coalitions in order to accomplish their missions.

"The cream rises to the top," says Henningsen. Organizations that both spend wisely and work hard for social change will continue to get money from the Women's Fund, which has provided $5 million to community organizations over its 25 years.

The current financial situation really started to get bad by mid-2008, when Henningsen and her partners were fighting hard to keep Legacy Bank afloat. But after Legacy was closed by the FDIC, Henningsen says that she found herself in the same position as Legacy's customers: she lost her business.

"I spent a couple months sitting around asking, 'What next?' I continued with my volunteer work and serving on boards, but I was out of a job," she says.

Some current Women's Fund board members thought Henningsen, who had previously chaired the board, would be a good replacement for their outgoing director. In fact, they cornered her at a function to tell her the position was open.

Henningsen grew up in Milwaukee. The oldest of 10 children, she attended Lloyd Street School, where her sister taught and retired from, and went on to Robert Fulton Junior High, North Division and Rufus King.

Henningsen wanted to leave Milwaukee for college, but says her mother didn't take a breath when Henningsen told her. So she ended up staying for college.

Henningsen started looking at the expense of college and that played a part in attending UW-Milwaukee. She lived at home and started working for a non-profit with the goal of buying a car. By the time she was 19, however, her dad informed her that if she couldn't be home on time then maybe she should get her own apartment.

"I didn't mean to break his rules, but I've always been a night owl," says Henningsen, laughing.

Henningsen kept the keys to her parent's house, but took her bedroom furniture and went out on her own. Henningsen still remembers the address, 1024 E. Ogden Ave., of her first place away from her parents' home. The building she lived in is no longer there.

Henningsen attended UWM during the height of the civil rights era and had a lot on her plate that first year. She was taking 19 credits, had a full-time job, another part-time job and was involved in registering people to vote in her "spare" time.

Henningsen helped form the Black Student Union at UWM. In her sophomore year, she organized a demonstration at UWM that, she says, got out of hand.

UWM administration said she caused a disturbance and expelled her.

Henningsen says a combination of low grades and the accusation of instigating a riot were their grounds for the expulsion, although she maintains that the event was not a riot and simply an on-campus protest. Unsure of what to do, Henningsen continued to attend classes for two weeks after the expulsion.

When her father was notified via a letter to his house, he met with the dean of students and pleaded his daughter's case, saying they shouldn't expel his oldest, that she was setting an example for her younger siblings and that she should be given another chance.

"He stuck by me, even though he was furious with me. I didn't ever want my father to be in a position of begging for me again. And I never got a grade of less than a B minus after that," says Henningsen.

Henningsen was put on probation for two years and graduated with honors, a double major in early childhood education and anthropology, in January 1972.

Both of Henningsen's parents attended college and pushed their kids to excel in school. Henningsen's father attended Prairie View College and then entered the service. Her mother went to Meharry Medical College in Nashville, Tenn., where she earned a nursing degree. They later owned Roger's Grocery at Locust and 24th Street, where Henningsen believes she got her entrepreneurial spirit. But Henningsen probably got a lot more by observing her parents' interactions with neighbors.

"My father took care of the kids in the neighborhood even though there were 10 of us. Because of this, people would sometimes call it 'Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood' after the TV show. Some kids wouldn't be able to wash their clothes all summer and he'd give them laundry detergent and supplies to get them ready for school in the fall," Henningsen says.

After college, Henningsen began working for the Social Development Commission and later became the director of Head Start programs in Milwaukee County. Eventually, Henningsen decided she wanted to make money and got into real estate after earning her broker's license.

"I decided I was going to be a capitalist, but with a social service mentality," says Henningsen.

Henningsen brought her activism to real estate once she noted that real estate deals for her customer base, which was predominately black, were falling apart while other deals continued to go through.

Redlining lawsuits exposed the practice of denying residents of certain (usually inner-city, predominately black) areas loans and access to financial services while approving those for people in other areas, even though the qualifications and creditworthiness of people in non-urban areas were equal to or even less desirable than those in the "redlined" areas.

"At that time, blacks were four times more likely to be denied (mortgage loans) than whites," says Henningsen.

In Milwaukee, real estate agents were required to take a class on the issues of fair lending and fair housing. Henningsen was tapped to teach these classes to her peers.

Industry practices began to change, but not nearly fast enough for Henningsen, who served on fair-lending action committees as she began working the financial end of real estate deals, first at Republic and then TCF banks.

As other banks continued not to lend to women and minorities at equal rates, Henningsen began to formulate plans for Legacy Bank, having the initial idea in 1997, the day after her 50th birthday. Legacy opened in 1999.

Seaway Bank and Trust Company of Chicago, another black-owned bank, took Legacy on, keeping many of its employees. Legacy's closure will be fully resolved by the FDIC within the next few months, during which time Henningsen and her partners will not speak publicly on the bank.

As Henningsen moves forward, continuing her activism through her new position at the Women's Fund, her 32-year-old daughter has followed in mom's entrepreneurial footsteps making and selling her own line of jewelry full-time.