Dear Evan Hansen
It’s a bit unsettling, as a writer, to read something with a messy ending.
Life isn’t tidy all the time — rarely is life tidy, in fact — but I try to end even the messy topics I write about with some sort of aesthetically-pleasing bow.
Steven Levenson takes no such measures in Dear Evan Hansen. Story plots are often described as a roller coaster: Rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion.
The roller coaster of this story is permeated with brokenness from start to finish. It’s a bit ghoulish, a bit too on the nose for those who relate to the characters, and beautiful in an odd way.
Nearly every single character in the novel experiences some level of exceptionally blatant brokenness — and that brokenness is never completely remedied. The novel opens with Evan writing a letter to himself, begrudgingly, at the request of the therapist he doesn’t want to go see anyway. Evan’s mother is work-absorbed and vain, too consumed with her own issues to recognize the needs of her son. Evan’s “family friend” Jared agrees to help Evan, but seemingly only for the $20 he gets out of the deal. Evan’s friend Alana seemingly becomes consumed with memorializing Connor because it was the cool thing to do at the time, and might look good on a resume. Connor’s dad seems out of touch with reality and in touch with a dose of alcoholism. Connor’s mother seems desperate to remember her son for something he wasn’t. Connor’s sister has troubles coming to grips with any positive aspects of her brother’s character, until it is eventually revealed that she desperately craved his affection. Connor himself was immensely complicated and misunderstood. Maybe the only major character without a fatal flaw was Miguel, Connor’s almost-lover. Yet even Miguel’s most memorable moment comes with his lack of action. Had he responded to Connor’s text, would Connor have killed himself?
It’s all quite a lot, really, for the reader to process in what is a relatively fast-paced read. And on the surface, all that starts grim ends grim. Evan certainly makes progress from beginning to end, but the reader is left without any solid evidence to suggest things are drastically going to turn. Jared goes to college, and his act of forgiveness toward Evan is…something, I guess. Alana sees the apple orchard through to completion, which, again, is…better than nothing? Connor’s parents seem to make progress in different ways. Zoe seems to be in a better place at the end of 330-plus pages than she was at the beginning. And Connor…well, you know.
As someone with anxiety and depression myself, I relate to so much of Evan’s experience: The racing inner monologues, the social awkwardness, the physical manifestations of nervousness, the loneliness, the desire to do A Good Thing that just turns into problems somehow, because that’s just how life works. But perhaps the thing that resonated the most, and the thing that was most unsettling, was the fact that there was no definite, concrete finish line in his character development by the end of the novel. He was better in plenty of ways, but still had undeniable issues. (Side note: Evan, don’t just…stop taking your medicine??? Like…??? Anyway.)
But also, that’s life, right? Especially with anxiety or depression or any sort of mental illness. Progress isn’t linear. As a perfectionist, damn is that frustrating. I wish I could go from zero to two to three and know I’ll never go back. Instead, I’ll go forward one, back two, forward four, forward two, back six, and so on. And that’s tiring. And frustrating. And makes it hard to actually see progress, especially at a micro level.
But eventually, I learn to adjust my expectations. As much as I’d like to, there’s never a “there” I’m going to reach, so I have to learn to accept small victories as confirmation that I’m generally trending in the right direction. Doing the dishes is a victory, because it means I have the awareness to keep things clean and have the energy to do dishes at all. Taking my dog for a walk is a victory because I’m going outside. Reading a book is a victory because it’s mentally engaging. Do all of those things in a day, or even one of those things in a day, and it’s a sign that I’m not in complete disarray.
I tend to be an all-or-nothing person: I either get everything right, or everything is a failure. Maybe that’s why Evan’s piecemeal approach to character development is troubling to me — it doesn’t feel like enough, because, “But what about this or this or…”
But even though he didn’t get everything right, he ended up in a better place than he started. And I’d like to think I’m in a better place mentally than I was six months ago, or a year ago, or whatever.
And the fact that beauty emerges from brokenness in small ways on a daily basis is something worth celebrating, even on a daily basis. Small things add up to big things if you take the time to realize it.
