The Enduring Legacy of the Kensington Runestone
The rune’s story is an immigrant story, no matter the century
In 1898, Swedish immigrant Olof Ohman was clearing stumps off his farmland near Kensington, Minnesota, when his shovel struck something hard. Entangled in the roots was a slab of stone, weighing in at 200 pounds and covered in Norse runic inscriptions. Ohman brought the stone to Kensington’s local bank where they put it on display, while a trace paper sketch of the runes was sent to the university for analysis.
The markings were later identified as Swedish runic writing. They describe the massacre of a group of Norwegians and Swedes in 1363. According to the inscription, the Norsemen were in search of the Vineland colony established by Leif Erickson, who some believe visited the state — over a century before Columbus came to North American shores.
Thus begins the saga and schism that divides those who believe in the authenticity of the rune’s Viking origins and scientists who refute it as an unmistakable hoax. For the believers, the Rune represents far more than a relic of archaeology. It is instead a symbol that their Nordic roots run deep. Long before the NFL Vikings tossed their first football or Swedish meatballs became the stuff of IKEA legend, the runestone seemed to prove that historical Vikings made their mark on the land.
Yet if a fabrication, as scientists have almost universally concluded, then the rune’s legacy may be much more complicated: it stands as a testament to the immigrant story, a desire to establish a place as their own, that’s as relevant to Minnesota today as it was over a century ago.
Olof Ohman came to Douglas County, Minnesota in 1879, a time when thousands of Swedes were flocking to the state. Facing dwindling prospects back home and drawn by the economic opportunities of the U.S., over a quarter of a million Swedes settled in Minnesota between 1850 and 1930.
Although Minnesota’s Swedish and Nordic cultural heritage is a defining characteristic of the state, the universal acceptance of Swedish immigrants amongst Minnesota’s 19th Century population was far from certain. In fact, the Swedes were subject to mean-spirited stereotypes and prejudices. “Dumb Swede” became a perjorative label, and Swedish caricatures like John Johnsson poked fun at their perceived clumsiness and proclivity for drink. According to historian Rudolph Vecoli, Swedes were not initially recognized as “whites’’ in the Anglo-Saxon or German sense. Seen as “other,” urban Swedes dwelled in shanty towns like impoverished Swede Hollow in St. Paul, which was described by an 1886 newspaper as “A Foreign Settlement in the Midst of St. Paul.” There was a general feeling of distaste associated with poor Swedes especially, with some describing them as giving off a distinct smell of sweat, leather, onion, and herring.
After the next wave of Polish immigration, discrimation directed at Swedes dwindled and the stereotypes faded away, until Swedish families and traditions became intertwined within Minnesota’s cultural fabric. Yet when Ohman first unearthed the Kensington rune in 1898, Swedish immigrants were still seeking that same sense of belonging that would become indistinguishable from Minnesota’s heritage 100 years later.
This was a time when “recent Scandinavian immigrants were angst-ridden about their place in the world, so the discovery of the Kensington Runestone could reassure them that this is where they belonged,” said Mike Scholtz, director of the documentary “Lost Conquest” in a History Channel interview. The yearning to feel welcome was real.
If a hoax, it’s unclear precisely who, how, or when the Rune may have been created and buried. The most likely perpetrator seems to be Ohman himself, who had little education but who owned a small library that included information about runes. Sven Fogelblad, Ohman’s friend and a former pastor, may have been in on the hoax. Both were said to dislike academics, leading some to believe that the two men set out to fool the “experts.” Ohman, however, went to his grave swearing to the authenticity of the stone.
It is of course possible that Ohman is the victim of the hoax himself. Organic material testing of the area around the stone showed that it had been buried for about 25 years before Ohman’s shovel struck it. And, a (highly controversial) analysis conducted by Scott F. Wolter in 2003 concluded that the inscriptions were more than 200 years old.
It does, however, seem an unlikely coincidence that a Swedish immigrant, at the time of mass immigration and identity crisis for Swedes, would have made this incredible discovery. How better to prove belonging than to show a thousand year legacy on the very land where you till the soil today? If true, the Swedish immigration narrative is more akin to a homecoming than an immigration tale, more returning hero than stranger in a strange land. Would Minnesota’s football team would be so aptly named, or would so many Minnesotans identify with the Viking legend, had it not been for Ohman’s unearthing of the stone over a century ago?
122 years later, Minnesota continues to be the landing places for thousands of immigrants and refugees, who, like Olof Ohman, are seeking to make a new home, a new life. More than 50,000 people of Somali ancestry live in the state, the largest concentration of Somalis in the country, most of them former refugees. There are more than 66,000 Hhmong people in Minnesota. The state’s Hispanic population is one of the fastest growing, with more than 300,000 people of Latino descent now calling the state home.
We live in a time of deep divides, with walls both physical and metaphorical, and broad accusational strokes levied at “foreigners” of all types. Certain “Nordic heritage groups,” like Asatru Folk Assembly, twist their storied ancestry to claim supremacy and justify hate. Yet it would behoove us to remember that not so long ago, those who today feel intrinsic to this place did not feel so themselves. And they may have gone to great lengths to lay their stake in the ground.
