Documents collected and analyzed by UW-Milwaukee geography Professor Anne Bonds show examples of racial covenants in Milwaukee, one for a residential subdivision and another for a cemetary. (Wisconsin Examiner photo illustration).

“Do you ever wonder why there are Black neighborhoods?” Derek Handley, an associate professor of English, African and African Diaspora and Urban studies at UW-Milwaukee, asks his students. How did Milwaukee County become one of the most segregated counties in the country, and what has that meant for the generations of families who either benefited from that bigotry, or were the targets of it?

On Saturday Handley, alongside fellow UW-Milwaukee professor Anne Bonds, will unveil a new project that deeply examines the historic use of racial housing covenants in Milwaukee. From 1-3 p.m. at the Milwaukee Public Library’s Centennial Hall, the professors will present “Mapping Racism and Resistance,” the culmination of three years of work and reflection by thousands of Milwaukee residents. 

Racial covenants were legal clauses in property records that explicitly prohibited people who were non-white from living within, occupying, owning or even being present on certain properties. The first covenants in Milwaukee popped up  in the city of Wauwatosa in 1911, 10-20 years before neighboring states established similar practices. Covenants in Wauwatosa and the rest of the Milwaukee area pre-date the practice of redlining,  where financial institutions systematically denied mortgages and financial investments to residents from Black and minority neighborhoods, and which began in 1938. 

In fact, the covenants set the stage for later forms of discrimination like redlining. Bonds explained that redlining was “a process that re-enforced and layered upon racial covenants” and that the level of racism in some communities was so strong it motivated entire neighborhoods to send the message to Black, brown and non-Christian people that they were not welcome. 

Covenants became popular during the 1920s and continued into the 1960s, even after multiple Supreme Court rulings rendered them illegal and, in theory, unenforceable. 

Sometimes the covenants were established before houses were even built in an area. Other times neighbors spent time and money in the courts to create covenants in already developed areas. “It cost money,” said Bonds, “it wasn’t cheap to go and then insert these racial covenants into their property records kind of after the fact.” Not only did covenants root themselves in communities which did not yet have Black residents, there were actually more restrictive covenants than there were Black residents of Milwaukee from 1910 to 1960. Milwaukee had a very small population of Black people when covenants arose, Handley said, adding, “there were three times as many covenants as there were Black people.” Bonds stressed that, “None of this is really passive in any way, shape, or form…It’s a very active whites-only kind thing.” 

That history “disrupts the notion that Jim Crow only happened in the South,” Handley told the Wisconsin Examiner. Never before has a map of racial covenants centralized or visualized those records for study. A network of over 6,000 people helped transcribe and analyze 1.9 million images of deeds, wills, court cases, property records and other Milwaukee County documents from 1910-1960. The records needed to be indexed, converted and checked by five different people to verify that they were covenants. Although computer programs helped organize the bulk of the data, human volunteers were needed to sift out false positives and to verify the findings. 

Mapping Racism and Resistance is both a crowdsourcing effort and a reckoning for the community. Not only does it map where the racial covenants were in Milwaukee County, “but more than anything we wanted the project to be about teaching people more, exposing people to more about the mechanisms and the kinds of techniques that were used to segregate cities,” said Bonds. “And it’s really painful to see this language, and jarring…It’s really jarring. It’s one thing to learn about housing discrimination and to say, ‘Yeah, people didn’t want to live by people who were not white.’ It’s another thing to see that language that says, ‘This home can never be occupied by anybody of the colored race.’ And to see that language inserted in a legal document, it’s pretty eye opening.” 

Mary Roberts, one of the project’s volunteer transcribers who helped upload and verify the covenants, was shocked by what she saw. Having grown up in Sheboygan when the community was essentially whites-only before attending UW-Milwaukee, Roberts had a peripheral understanding of Milwaukee’s housing covenants. Now at retirement age, she was drawn to the project out of a desire to get involved in social justice issues in the city. 

“I have to confess, I did not really understand it,” Roberts told the Examiner. “I understood it in the abstract, but it really deepened my understanding in a way that I just don’t know if I can fully explain. You know, reading in black and white these very calculating and cold and indifferent property deeds…It was incredibly eye-opening to me.” Seeing the racial covenants went far beyond any lesson that can be learned in school, Roberts said. “I was born in 1965, so some of the racial covenants I found were like, they were living, breathing documents in my lifetime. So I went into this thinking that it was really more about history, but it is a living history that was really present in my lifetime. And I think that was very surprising to me.” 

A large portion of the covenants reviewed by Roberts were established in Wauwatosa and largely discriminated against Black people. However, she also found covenants from Greenfield, and others which also included Jewish people and other non-Christians including  Armenian people and Asian people. Covenants also existed to the north and east of Wauwatosa, as well as in Milwaukee’s Sherman Park, Sunset Heights and Roosevelt Heights neighborhoods on the South Side near the airport. “A lot of people talk about the way that Milwaukee is surrounded by its predominately white suburbs,” said Bonds. “And certainly when you look at the racial covenants, you can see that pattern playing out, that they surround the city of Milwaukee.” 

Roberts noticed that the covenants seemed to put the racial clauses alongside other restrictions like not being allowed to have livestock, or how close a lot could be to a street or property line. She described the covenants as “this very cold, unemotional, sickening language that really is treating people like farm animals, or like an out-building.” 

“So much of the language really was like, you know, no person of African American descent, no one who’s Armenian, could live at this property ever, unless you were a servant. Some of them even excluded servants from properties…It says that in one spot, and then in the next spot it says you can’t have any farm animals at this property. So it was really equating people to really sub-human status, essentially.” 

The Greenfield covenant Roberts found was created by neighbors who’d formed a homeowners association and signed their names to the record. As she transcribed the records, Roberts found herself thinking of her own life, and how the property she lives on now had been passed down through three generations of her husband’s family. “We could never have built the house that we did if we had not inherited land from his dad,” said Roberts. “So it really hammers home in a way that I think other things don’t, that ability to build generational wealth was really denied to a whole class of people in our community. And that those inequities persist today, because that is how things were back then.” 

The same aspect of the project struck Handley when he and Bonds met the descendants of Zeddie Hyler, the first Black homeowner of Wauwatosa. In 1955 Hyler sought to build a home in Wauwatosa, but had to get a white friend to buy the property before he could begin. Local residents attempted to harass him out of the neighborhood, and even resorted to arson. Hyler’s descendants told the professors that Hyler and his brothers were forced to camp out with shotguns in order to protect the house. Hyler died in 2004, and his home has been designated as a historic place. 

Handley recalled looking online to compare the value of the Hyler family home with the house he’d moved from in Milwaukee’s Bronzeville neighborhood. “We’re literally talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars, so the racial wealth gap is so significant because of housing discrimination,” said Handley. Resisting racist housing practices took bravery and ingenuity. “Black people in Milwaukee knew about it, NAACP was actively fighting against it,” said Handley.

In the early 1940s, NAACP Attorney George Brawley surveyed plats filed in Milwaukee County and found that about 90 percent of the subdivisions in Milwaukee County since 1910 had some type of restrictive covenant which “pledged the owner not to sell or rent to anyone other than Caucasians.” Wilbur and Ardie Clark Halyard, who founded Columbia Savings & Loan Association in 1924, helped give Black people, poor whites and other disadvantaged groups the opportunity to get a loan to buy a house. While other states focused on winning in court, key players in Milwaukee worked on economic efforts to “break into certain neighborhoods, to provide the economic means for Black people to get the support they need to purchase homes, and then try to find pathways into those neighborhoods,” Handley told the Examiner. 

This history of defiance is also something the professors hope the Nov. 8 unveiling of Mapping Racism and Resistance will reveal to people, especially those who may not believe that the housing covenants really played a role in shaping their community, or who doubt that their legacy continues to endure. Hyler’s story particularly shows how far people would go to maintain whites-only communities. Although the covenants became unenforceable after the 1960s, communities like Wauwatosa maintained racist attitudes. In the late 1980s, a whistleblower exposed that Wauwatosa police officers, firefighters and residents were attending annual Martin Luther King Day parties where attendees wore Black face, distributed fliers suggesting hunting Black people instead of deer, and other racist behaviors. 

In late 2020, Mayor Dennis McBride acknowledged that “the Wauwatosa I grew up in was a racist, almost totally white community,” though he denied that it struggles with racism today. Earlier that year, some Wauwatosa residents received letters which stated: “We Whites must stand together. We must keep Wauwatosa free from Blacks and their lack of morals. We must keep Blacks from destroying our property, raping our wives and daughters, and recruiting our children into street gangs. We MUST keep Wauwatosa great. Together we can keep Wauwatosa White! Together we can keep Wauwatosa safe!” The Wauwatosa Police Department said that it didn’t plan to investigate who distributed the letters, and the department focused on surveilling and disrupting Black Lives Matter protesters that summer. 

Wauwatosa didn’t elect its first Black alderman until 2022. The following year, Wauwatosa’s common council voted to request that the state dissolve its housing covenants, which still exist today as invalid clauses of deeds passed to homeowners upon buying certain properties. Other Milwaukee-area suburban communities, like Brookfield, continue to struggle with accepting affordable housing developments and newcomers. 

Bonds cautions against the impulse to erase uncomfortable histories. Most people don’t want to live in a home with racist ownership clauses, Bonds told the Examiner, and “it’s a relic of the past, and something that is obviously really dark.” Yet, Bonds said, “We are wary of erasing the record,” because “removing them today obscures the work that they’ve already done. We can take them out of here now, but it doesn’t mean that they didn’t have an impact. It doesn’t mean that they didn’t do the work that they were set out to do when they were implemented in the first place.” The covenants conferred legal and economic power regardless of whether people who have benefited from them are “able to see it or understand it,” said Bonds.

A fully interactive website planned as part of the project has been delayed due to grant cuts, and Bonds and Handley are also working on a book. Viewers will be able to look up covenants for properties, and get down even to the parcel-level. “I definitely see this as just part of a longer study of trying to understand housing and the availability of housing to all residents of Milwaukee County,” said Bonds. “We really view this as a community project.”  

Roberts says Mapping Racism and Resistance captures an important history for people to see, especially people whose families have lived in communities built on a foundation of covenants and redlining for generations. “It’s important to not look away from that,” said Roberts. “And unless we’re having these tough conversations, I don’t think anything can get better.” Handley agreed, adding, “this is part of Milwaukee’s history, and what we can learn from it, and what we can do moving forward.”

GET THE MORNING HEADLINES.

SUBSCRIBE

An emergency room nurse tends to a patient at Houston Methodist The Woodlands Hospital in Texas. States, counties and nonprofits are striving to continue their work to close racial health disparity gaps but are struggling amid a loss of federal dollars. (Photo by Brandon Bell/Getty Images)

Racial health disparities may widen as states, universities and nonprofits grapple with federal funding cuts to programs that were aimed at filling gaps in care, public health experts say.

As part of its federal restructuring and crackdown on diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) programs, the Trump administration has been shuttering federal offices and rescinding grants dedicated to addressing worse health care access and outcomes for racial minorities.

The shake-up has caused some state agencies and nonprofits to pause programs and some groups and universities to apply for foundation grants instead.

Hundreds of grants have been terminated for state, local and territorial health departments as well as nonprofits and universities, many of which addressed health equity across rural, low-income and communities of color.

The nation’s racial health disparities were laid bare during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the virus killed Black, Hispanic and Indigenous people at higher rates than white people. The police murder of George Floyd in May 2020 also fueled a racial reckoning across the nation, prompting efforts by states, universities, health systems and the federal government to address racial health disparities.

Those approaches ranged from targeted vaccine campaigns and efforts to enroll more people of color in clinical trials to corrections of diagnostic tests that relied on inaccurate information about race and biology.

Communities of color have long had less access to health care, increased exposure to environmental pollutants and higher rates of certain chronic illnesses and cancer deaths. They also have more diabetes-related amputations because of a lack of access to care. And specific genetic diseases, such as sickle cell disease, disproportionately affect Black people.

“COVID revealed the impact of health disparities to individual health — as well as how not addressing these disparities undermines the health system for everyone,” said Dr. Georges Benjamin, executive director of the American Public Health Association.

Now, many of the programs trying to address health disparities are being rolled back.

As a result, health policy experts, clinicians and researchers fear those disparities will widen as states, universities and nonprofits grapple with lost federal dollars while the administration continues to limit federal funding for DEI programs. In July, the U.S. Department of Justice released guidance saying such initiatives should not receive federal funding, alleging they are “discriminatory.”

Entities that receive federal funds “must ensure that their programs and activities comply with federal law and do not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, sex, religion, or other protected characteristics—no matter the program’s labels, objectives, or intentions,” the news release said.

Several state and local health officials were reluctant to speak with Stateline on the record about how the federal administration’s DEI crackdown has left them in a bind, fearing retaliation or targeting by the federal government. The White House did not respond to Stateline’s request for comment.

“My concern about what the administration is doing is that they are, in effect, making these disparities worse,” Benjamin said. “Everybody’s health is not the same. … It’s important to know that the disparities are really profound.”

Benjamin added that the cumulative effect of disparities means more late-stage disease — costing both patients and health systems more.

“There’s a trope or misunderstanding out there that DEI is a ‘woke’-related agenda. DEI is not a ‘woke’ agenda. DEI is an American agenda, because it’s really one that is the same thing as ‘rising tides lift all boats,’” said Brandon Wilson, senior director of Health Innovation and Public Health at Community Catalyst, a health equity advocacy organization. “When you cut [resources] off, you’re actually disproportionately impacting those who are already impacted.”

‘Increasing need’

The administration canceled billions of dollars in grants from the National Institutes of Health (NIH), the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of Health and Human Services.

Many of the grants helped recipients create solutions tailored to their communities’ needs and strengths.

At least three dozen state, local and territorial health departments have had pandemic-era grants that addressed health equity terminated. While originally focused on COVID-19, agencies have since used that grant money for other public health efforts: testing and contact tracing for a wide range of diseases, better data reporting, and community partnerships that address social and environmental effects on health.

The money was part of a $2.2 billion national health equity initiative that aimed to address vulnerabilities and protect those communities ahead of the next outbreak.

The Department of Health and Human Services told media such cancellations were due to the pandemic emergency ending in 2023.

At NIH, the administration terminated more than 5,400 NIH research grants, although about 2,800 were reinstated. Canceled grants included research toward illnesses like HIV and AIDS, which disproportionately affect Black and Hispanic people as well as gay and transgender people.

The Trump administration has also gutted federal offices dedicated to fighting disparities, including the Offices of Minority Health under the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services and the Department of Health and Human Services.

At the state level, the Arkansas Department of Health recently shut down its own minority health-focused office. Ashley Whitlow, a spokesperson for the department, said in a statement that it “relies on federal grant funding to support a variety of public health programs.”

“The recent reduction in program staff reflects the Arkansas Department of Health’s ongoing efforts to operate more efficiently with the resources available. Despite these changes, ADH remains fully committed to serving communities across the state,” the statement said.

Meanwhile, Maryland’s Department of Health said its minority health office is funded through state general funds and not directly impacted by the federal cuts.

The nation has seen a spike in congenital syphilis cases, which disproportionately occur among Black and Indigenous families.

“Regardless of whether you’re at the highest risk, any outbreak that’s not controlled can spread widely and broadly, and you can see that that’s what’s happening with measles,” said Dr. Julie Morita, former executive vice president of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and former health commissioner Chicago Department of Public Health.

But states likely can’t replace all the lost federal dollars.

“You’ve got declining capacity, and increasing need — which is a formula for problems,” said Richard Frank, director of the Brookings Institution Center on Health Policy.

“It’s impossible to make all that up with state and local dollars,” he continued. “You’re going to see programs that serve real people getting pulled back.”

Frank and Wilson also expressed concern about the Medicaid changes included in the broad tax and spending law President Donald Trump signed in July. The law is projected to cut federal Medicaid spending by an estimated $911 billion over the next decade, largely because new work requirements will push people off the rolls. Data shows the majority of Medicaid enrollees already work, and experts say many will be kicked off the rolls due to difficulties in states’ reporting processes. Black and Hispanic people are disproportionately represented on the Medicaid rolls.

OB-GYN Dr. Versha Pleasant, a clinical assistant professor at the University of Michigan, directs the Cancer Genetics and Breast Health Clinic at Von Voigtlander Women’s Hospital. She treats patients at high risk for breast and ovarian cancers. Black women have an almost 40% higher risk of death from breast cancer than white women.

“That, to me, is unacceptable,” she said, adding that such disparities speak to the need for ongoing programs to “provide everyone with a fair chance at leading a long and healthy life.”

“If we don’t make a special effort to save the most vulnerable lives … where does that leave us?” she continued. “The changes that we’re seeing are only going to magnify preexisting challenges.”

Data and dollars

Dr. Sarah Rudman, acting public health officer at the Santa Clara County Public Health Department in California, and others have told Stateline that federal officials are informing health agencies that race and ethnicity data are no longer required to be reported.

“We are being asked to change the way we collect our own data here and report it,” Rudman said, adding that her county is going to continue collecting data to “understand who is here, who’s experiencing what health outcome and what they need.”

Many families, in the shadow of the county’s Silicon Valley, still struggle with poverty — more than 27,000 children suffer food insecurity, United Way Bay Area says.

“It is sometimes surprising and striking to people to understand how much poverty and other types of vulnerability are hidden among the more visible wealth of Silicon Valley, and that’s where we’ve dedicated our resources,” Rudman said.

“It’s hard to even imagine what my colleagues in smaller areas of California or in other parts of the country are experiencing,” she added about lower-income counties. “We are feeling extremely strained and already in our second round of layoffs, knowing that many more are likely. So I think that the hits are going to be that much more significant in areas who have less resources than we do.”

Federal officials also canceled the county’s $5.7 million grant to address COVID-19-related disparities, used to shore up vulnerable communities ahead of the next disease outbreak, natural disaster or heat wave, Rudman said. The money helped the county conduct basic laboratory testing and vaccine outreach for a wide range of diseases, not just COVID-19.

Stateline reporter Nada Hassanein can be reached at nhassanein@stateline.org.