05/08/2026
I should have sued Home State Bank in Loveland Colorado. In 2025 I bought a building, opened a spa and salon. They wouldn't give me a line of credit without Larry's signature!
November 1978. Downtown Denver. A line of women stretches around the city block, some clutching envelopes, others gripping checkbooks, a few carrying cash they'd hidden at home for years.
They weren't there for a sale or a concert. They were there to open bank accounts. At a bank that finally treated them like adults.
Just four years earlier, American women had won the legal right to get credit cards without a man's signature. The Equal Credit Opportunity Act of 1974 said banks couldn't discriminate anymore. But laws on paper don't rewrite institutional culture overnight.
Walk into most banks in the late 1970s, and you'd find the same old attitudes wearing new masks. A woman's salary? Supplemental income. A female business owner seeking a loan? Too risky. A divorced woman trying to rebuild? Suspicious.
The system had been forced to let women in. But it sure as hell wasn't rolling out the welcome mat.
So eight Colorado women stopped waiting for invitations. Carol Green. Judi Wagner. LaRae Orullian. Wendy Davis. Gail Schoettler. Joy Burns. Beverly Martinez. Edna Mosely. Each committed $1,000 of their own earnings as seed money. Together, they rallied investors and raised $2 million to do something unprecedented in the West.
They opened The Women's Bank. Not a lending circle or a feminist fundraiser. A fully chartered, federally insured commercial bank. The first women-owned bank west of the Mississippi.
The founders figured maybe a few dozen curious customers would show up on opening day. Instead, women flooded in by the hundreds. By closing time, they'd deposited over one million dollars.
One million. In one day.
These weren't just transactions. They were declarations. Every deposit said: I trust you to see me as I am. Every new account meant: I'm done asking permission to control my own money.
The Women's Bank went on to finance businesses that male bankers had dismissed. It offered financial education. It proved that a bank centered on women's economic reality wasn't charity work. It was smart business.
Gail Schoettler later became Colorado's Lieutenant Governor. The bank eventually merged with larger institutions, as community banks did. But the message had already spread. Women across the country saw what was possible when you stop asking for a seat at the table and build your own institution instead.
Today, when a woman signs for a mortgage or launches a business without a male cosigner, she's standing on ground those eight women broke open. They didn't just start a bank. They proved that women's economic power was never the problem. Access was. And access could be seized, not granted.
