reasponse to my papa's waltz

this poem, out of all of the poems i have read with my class is definitely the most controversial. i read this poem for the first time last year and just like this year it sparked 2 sides and 2 ideas. now i personally think that the father wasn't beating his son because i think that the whole tone of the poem would be different if the memory was something sad. this poem i think has it's own little beat and i don't think Theodore Roethke would have done that if he was remembering a sad event.

some people make the argument that "oh well the father is drunk so he must be abusing his son" i disagree with this, just because you're drunk doesn't mean that you have to go beating people. i don't think this point is really valid i mean i have seen many drunk people and they don't go around randomly beating people. they're just a little loopy.

also another big reason why i think that this was a happy event is because the title of the poem is "my papa's waltz" i personally wouldn't associate this title with beating or with unhappy memories. another reason why i think that its just having fun is the meaning of the word romped,"rompedpast participle, past tense of romp (Verb)1. (esp. of a child or animal) Play roughly and energetically.

 it says play not abuse. 

another thing people seem to misinterpret is the line "You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt"  i think that this is actually just enforcing the fact that this is a waltz and what he means by beat time is he kept the waltz's 3/4 beat by tapping it on his head. since all waltz have a 3/4 beat i think his father was just showing his son that what they were dancing was a waltz. because if he was actually beating him why would he be beating time. 

these are some of the few reasons why i think that the father isn't beating his son, but then again there really isn't a way to be sure because we don't know what happened. so it is still up to you to decide but this is what i think.

MY PAPA'S WALTZ
 
  The whiskey on your breath
  Could make a small boy dizzy;
  But I hung on like death:
  Such waltzing was not easy.
 
  We romped until the pans
  Slid from the kitchen shelf;
  My mother's countenance
  Could not unfrown itself.
 
  The hand that held my wrist
  Was battered on one knuckle;
  At every step you missed
  My right ear scraped a buckle.
  
  You beat time on my head
  With a palm caked hard by dirt,
  Then waltzed me off to bed 
  Still clinging to your shirt.