My Papa's Waltz By Theodore Roethke

Traumatic Repression of a Waltz
In Theodore Roethke’s poem, My Papa’s Waltz, there seems to be a bit of controversy about what actions are taking place within it. From the title, it appears that the father and child were dancing, seeing as a waltz is a type of dance. But this is no dance. While waltzing, one person leads while the other follows. The father is the leader in this situation, showing dominance over his child. This “waltz” is simply something that the father does often. The narrator is the child. The vague and patchy description of the actions taking place would indicate that this is but a memory the narrator is trying to recall about his childhood. The poem, when read over quickly and lazily, may appear to be about this dance,
The simple action of stomping around while dancing couldn’t have caused this. The walls were shaking. Romped in its simplest definition is the action of playing roughly or energetically. Except it has more than one definition, as most words do. So, on an informal note, romping can also be coined a sexual term. Whether the child and his father were “playing”” or engaging in sexual activities neither option sounds too pleasant if it was so rough enough to knock pans down in the kitchen. It’s almost like the narrator can’t remember exactly how the pans feel down so their subconscious tried fill in the void of memory with this idea that they were dancing. But the reality is that the real memory is too traumatic that the narrator’s own mind is trying to protect itself by saying that the pans fell because of their stomping and not from a bed being banged up on the other side of the kitchen
It is a true blessing when our own minds protect themselves by warping and forgetting memories to make things easier on a person overall. The younger someone is the easier it is for memories to be forgotten. Repressed memories are ones that someone has unconsciously forgotten. Or despite its obvious occurrence can’t be recalled. Like when you can’t remember the first words you spoke or how old you were when you first learned to walk. As people get older memories start to become more solid and real. The narrator, whether too young to remember precisely what was happening or suffered from repressed traumatic memories, was not clear enough to validate the actions taking place. The child in the memory was almost like a puppet. Never spoke, never cried, they only did what the father made them do. The child clung to his father’s shirt as he walked by his mother who stood in the kitchen frowning, picking up the pans from the floor and placing them back on the shelves. Some memories are better left in the