Poem for Ava Michel Hudson; I didn’t know you, I didn’t know your name
Warning
This poem depicts suicide. Resources available at the end of this poem.
For Ava Michel Hudson
I didn’t know you. I didn’t know your name.
Yet I feel your absence in every rumble and squeal
Of the train that ferries hope through hushed tunnels,
The bus that winds its way across North Side avenues
Precious lifelines of this city.
You wore that boxy uniform, CTA blue pressed and framed,
A uniform meant to carry, but one that silenced your truth.
You rode beneath flashing streetlights, across cracked sidewalks,
Where riders and supervisors clipped your wings with careless words
“Sir,” they said—misnamed, misunderstood, undone.
And I, who call this home, hear your pain in every screech
As the Blue Line car lurches above the streets of Oak Park,
Its roar mimicking the deafening silence of your spirit:
The magnitude of your pain, of the hate that gnawed away
Turns silence into a scream no echo could answer.
You chased stability, a paycheck, a dream of becoming
$61,000 a year to reshape your life, to live as yourself.
But stability collapsed under the weight of daily erasure,
In a uniform that boxed you, in pronouns that froze your breath.
Each misstep, each reprimand, each clipped route, a reminder
That the tracks we ride on don’t just carry us—they find us.
On August 7, 2024, you ran down the platform in your blue shirt,
Black pants pressed and ready, running toward something you hoped would save you.
But the train came—and took you instead, beneath the hum and clatter,
And beneath the grief of everyone you never knew you carried.
I didn’t know you. I didn’t know your name.
But the silent echo of your departure is louder than any train’s last call.
Your spirit lingers in every bus turning corner, every train railing squeal
A ghost of sorrow that shadows our streets, demanding we remember,
That the roars of our city can both drown us—and awaken us.
A note about this poem
I didn’t know Ava Michal Hudson. She was 27. She joined the Chicago Transit Authority in early 2024 with hopes of stability and benefits to support her transition. Just months into her job as a bus operator, she faced frequent misgendering, discomfort with the mandated uniform, and a lack of meaningful support from coworkers or union representatives.
On August 7, 2024, wearing her full CTA uniform, Hudson entered the Austin Blue Line station on her way to work and died by suicide in front of a train. The CTA’s internal review centered on operational safety, leaving unanswered questions about the role workplace culture and transphobia may have played in her death.
Ava should be a rallying cry to protect LGBTQ people in the workplace—especially in our public works and government agencies paid for by our tax money. This is especially true as the Trump Administration continues its war against LGBTQ persons by rolling back hard fought protections by Executive Order, Republican-backed legislation, and judicial appointments.
Suicide prevention resources
If Ava’s story stirs something heavy in your heart, please know you are not alone. There is help, there are people who care, and there is a tomorrow worth reaching for.
In the U.S., you can call or text 988, or use webchat at 988lifeline.org. By law, Gov. JB Pritzker has required the continuation of separate LGBTQ support at that number within the State of Illinois.
LGBTQ youth and adults can also reach out to The Trevor Project at 1 (866) 488-7386 or text START to 678-678.
If you are in Chicago, you can also call Chicago’s Crisis Line at 311 and ask for the Crisis Assistance Response and Engagement (CARE) team, or contact NAMI Chicago’s helpline at 1 (833) 626-4244 for free, confidential support.
