As someone who stands apart from the widespread acclaim for “Thirteen Reasons Why,” I feel compelled to articulate my strong disapproval of this novel. This isn’t just a lukewarm reception; it’s a profound dislike rooted in what I perceive as the book’s deeply problematic portrayal of teen suicide.
The core issue, and the most significant flaw in “13 Reasons Why,” is its insidious glamorization of suicide. I understand this is a contentious point, particularly given the book’s popularity and the praise it has received for supposedly tackling the sensitive subject of teen suicide realistically. However, from my perspective, “13 Reasons Why” inadvertently constructs a monument to Hannah Baker’s suicide, one that is more glamorous than harrowing.
Instead of dispelling the dangerous myths surrounding suicide that often circulate among teenagers, I believe this book actively reinforces them. It’s crucial to remember a fundamental truth: all pain, in time, is temporary. Reflecting on my own experiences with intense pain – depression, surgery, grief – each felt insurmountable at the time, as though they would never cease. Yet, they did. Pain, however agonizing, is not perpetual. It requires immense strength, bravery, and honesty to navigate through it, but the reality is that there will be a future day when even the deepest pain becomes a memory.
This is the bedrock principle that underscores why suicide is unequivocally never the answer. And this is where “13 Reasons Why” profoundly fails.
I believe this book, despite its intentions, subtly encourages suicidal ideation. It’s a strong statement, I acknowledge, and I’m not suggesting the author, Jay Asher, deliberately set out to promote suicide. However, when dealing with a subject as delicate as suicide, the potential for unintended consequences is immense.
Having experienced fleeting, albeit never serious, suicidal thoughts myself, a common thread in such thinking is the notion: “When I’m gone, they’ll finally understand,” or “They’ll be sorry.” Perhaps I’m projecting my own experiences, but in writing about suicide, this risk of resonating with and potentially amplifying such dangerous thoughts is ever-present. “13 Reasons Why,” in my view, inadvertently validates this very line of thinking.
Let me be blunt to any emotionally vulnerable teenagers reading this: death is absolute. You cease to exist. There will be no future growth, no more moments with loved ones, no more experiences of joy or wonder. You are permanently gone. Life, however, will continue for those around you. They may grieve, they may feel guilt, but they will still be alive, still capable of experiencing life and moving forward. You will not.
Yet, within the narrative of “13 Reasons Why,” Hannah Baker’s suicide is portrayed as a dramatic, almost redemptive act. By sending out her tapes, she becomes the catalyst for change, the unforgettable figure at the center of everyone’s world. She becomes Clay’s idealized, tragic muse, eternally etched in his memory. Hannah’s suicide forces everyone who wronged her to confront their actions and feel remorse.
While some might argue that “13 Reasons Why” is about learning empathy and understanding the impact of our actions, I struggle to reconcile this with the narrative’s core mechanics. It is Hannah’s death, Hannah’s suicide, that becomes the ultimate teacher. She transforms into a romanticized suicide cliché: the all-knowing, ever-present avenging angel, the tragic heroine. This romanticization overshadows any attempts to convey the message that “Hannah Baker Didn’t Have To Die.” Within the story’s framework, her suicide does seem to achieve a perverse kind of success. Skye might find solace in Clay’s attention, the rapist is exposed, the voyeur is exposed, and everyone who was unkind to Hannah learns a profound lesson. All thanks to Hannah’s suicide. Hannah shows everyone.
But this is a dangerous fantasy. Suicide doesn’t function as a lesson-delivery mechanism. Hannah, in many ways, is the dark mirror image of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope. Instead of infusing life into a dull protagonist through her vibrant existence, Hannah does so through her death. Despite any superficial nods to suicide prevention resources, the overarching narrative of “13 Reasons Why” feels like a dangerous perpetuation of romantic and harmful teenage myths about suicide.
The very premise of the tapes is clever but fundamentally flawed in its logic. The chain of tapes being passed from one “reason” to the next, with Clay continuing the cycle at the end, highlights these inconsistencies. Hannah herself acknowledges the varying degrees of culpability among the recipients, which immediately raises questions.
Firstly, the severity of the “crimes” attributed to each tape recipient is wildly disparate. The spectrum ranges from a boy who groped Hannah to, potentially, a friend she drifted apart from. Hannah’s rationale is that guilt will compel them to pass the tapes on and maintain silence about others’ secrets due to their own culpability. However, this logic crumbles under scrutiny. Someone guilty of a minor offense might easily risk exposure to reveal the far more egregious actions of others. The moral gulf between a fleeting act of harassment and a violent crime is immense.
Secondly, even considering guilt as a motivator, it’s unclear why some individuals would participate in this charade. Take Justin, for example. His actions aren’t just a “reason”; they constitute a serious crime. The risk of further legal repercussions by participating in Hannah’s tape game is enormous. The self-preservation instinct alone should override any guilt-induced compliance. Many of the characters are taking an incredible gamble by perpetuating the tape system.
Beyond the flawed narrative structure, Hannah Baker herself is a deeply problematic character. This is problematic on multiple levels. Firstly, she is, frankly, an unsympathetic character. If she weren’t a fictional character who had tragically died, I would describe her as someone I actively disliked. Secondly, Asher’s portrayal renders her deeply implausible, at least to me.
Let’s delve into why she comes across as so unlikeable. During Jessica’s assault at the party, Hannah is present, hidden in a closet. She witnesses the entire horrific event and does absolutely nothing to intervene. While it’s understandable that she might be too intoxicated or fearful to intervene in the moment, her complete inaction is jarring. It doesn’t necessarily make her a villain, and human fear is a complex emotion. But her subsequent behavior is where the true issue lies.
Asher’s narrative completely neglects to address Hannah’s guilt or responsibility in this situation. When reading about suicide, the last emotion the narrative should evoke is self-pity for the deceased. Yet, Hannah displays no remorse, no empathy for Jessica. Her tapes are a relentless monologue of self-pity, focusing solely on how events impacted her, with zero consideration for Jessica’s trauma or Hannah’s own role in failing to help.
Worse still, Hannah includes Jessica as one of her “thirteen reasons why.” She blames Jessica for contributing to her suicide. Let’s recap: Hannah witnesses Jessica’s assault, does nothing, and then blames Jessica for the deterioration of their friendship and, ultimately, for her own suicide. The supposed falling out between Jessica and Hannah was so trivial it’s barely memorable, yet Hannah weaponizes it as a justification for her suicide and includes Jessica in her accusatory tapes.
Even if Jessica hadn’t stopped listening to the tapes in disgust – which would be a reasonable reaction – she then has to grapple with the revelation that her former best friend, and someone she might have harbored romantic feelings for, committed suicide and holds her responsible. And Hannah broadcasts this accusation to thirteen other people. It’s an appalling invasion of Jessica’s privacy and a cruel burden to place upon her.
Ultimately, the narrative positions Hannah as the victim. While Clay briefly acknowledges Hannah’s vengeful act of “hitting Jessica with the tapes,” it’s a fleeting moment of moral ambiguity. The overarching narrative frames Hannah as the tragic victim, her suicide as the central tragedy. Jessica’s trauma, the violation she endured, and the public dissemination of her private pain are secondary, almost footnotes to Hannah’s self-centered narrative. It’s frankly nauseating.
The cumulative effect is a sense of outrage at the book’s skewed perspective. Unlike some readers, I don’t inherently object to Hannah’s reasons for her despair not being overtly dramatic or catastrophic. Teenage life is often characterized by intense emotional reactions to seemingly minor events. A careless comment can trigger profound distress. This aspect of teenage experience, while perhaps not glamorous, rings true.
However, Asher’s handling of this realism is where the narrative falters. This leads to the second key reason for Hannah’s unbearable character: her disproportionate reactions and didactic tone.
As previously mentioned, Hannah’s reasons range from the genuinely serious to the trivial. However, her narrative voice maintains a consistent level of outrage, blurring the lines between a degrading sexual assault and a casual, albeit inappropriate, compliment. She expresses equal fury at the perpetrator of a sexual assault and a boy who complimented her appearance. Perhaps this undifferentiated rage is meant to portray the distorted perspective of a suicidal individual. Yet, Hannah’s voice is also didactic, as though the reader is meant to absorb “Very Important Lessons” from each tape. The problem is, the lessons derived from a sexual assault are qualitatively different from those derived from an unwelcome compliment. They are not in the same moral or emotional category.
Objectification is wrong. Women should not be treated as objects. But the “nice ass” comment, while inappropriate and unwelcome, is hardly bullying. It’s a fleeting discomfort, something to brush off, not a catalyst for a downward spiral. Its placement as a significant “reason” feels disproportionate and undermines the gravity of genuinely harmful actions. Furthermore, to suggest that this comment is a primary driver of Hannah’s suicide path feels backwards. Teenagers are notoriously lacking in perspective, but even within that context, the weight given to this incident is skewed. And to imply, as the narrative seems to, that this is solely a product of a misogynistic society ignores the reality that female students can be equally, if not more, critical and judgmental of their peers’ appearances. The “nice ass” comment, while not a compliment Hannah should have welcomed, perhaps warranted a less catastrophic reaction.
In a particularly egregious example of Hannah’s skewed perspective and self-absorption, she expresses outrage because, after getting a haircut, people’s reaction was “hey, nice haircut!” instead of “ARE YOU HAVING SUICIDAL THOUGHTS?!?!” This highlights the fundamental flaw in Hannah’s narrative: an inflated sense of self-importance and a distorted perception of the world’s attentiveness to her inner turmoil.
In conclusion, “13 Reasons Why,” while attempting to address a critical issue, ultimately falls short due to its glamorization of suicide, its flawed and unsympathetic protagonist, and its illogical narrative structure. It’s a book that, in my opinion, does more harm than good in its portrayal of teen suicide.
