HAVANA—El Moro is not a neighborhood where tour buses stop. The dirt roads are filled with loud noise and teeming people, many of them children. The kids are able to avoid the antiquated cars that race up and down these backroads, but they cannot escape the dire poverty that is evident everywhere.

In a country that touts universal education—Cuba has one of the highest literacy rates in the world—and universal health care, in sections of Havana like this one, there is little more than universal poverty.

Standing in the middle of so much poverty caused me to reflect on my upbringing in Tuscaloosa, Ala. I was born in a three-room shack on 15th Street, delivered by an African-American midwife. The all-Black neighborhood, just across the railroad tracks, was called “The Bottom.” People called the old, wooden shacks “shotgun” houses, supposedly because one could stand on the front porch and shoot straight through the house.

When I got older, I would joke that we had lived in a “B-B gun” house, a step below a shotgun house. I also joked that we were so poor that when Mama sliced ham, it was so thin that it had only one side.

Amid the poverty there was laughter. There was also hope, a recognition that regardless of where one started in life, even in segregated Alabama, we could overcome our past, we could beat the odds. All it took was God’s grace, talent, hard work, good teachers, encouragement from caring adults and the ability to dream.

There are many communities in the United States that look like El Moro, places that time seems to have bypassed. I have seen such communities in East St. Louis, Ill., the Mississippi Delta and even Los Angeles.

But this was different. Maybe it was different because I was in a different country, seeing people live under a different system. For whatever reason, when I looked at the beautiful children playing in the streets, I wondered about their future. Would they, like others before them, return to this squalor? Would the smart ones score high enough on tests to take advantage of a free university education?

Or, will they turn out like Leonid Junco, a neighborhood resident who dropped out of school in the eighth grade and began earning less than $5 a month as an auto mechanic. He is now unemployed and sells bread on these dusty roads to earn money.

Junco speaks in a matter-of-fact way when he discusses his plight.

“It’s like everywhere else,” he explains. “Some people have more than others. Some people have more talent, they study and they have better jobs later.”

As my mind drifted back to my childhood, I remembered how blessed we were. Even in “The Bottom.” We moved into public housing while I was still in elementary school; after spending most of her life doing domestic work, Mama got a job at an anti-poverty agency and I was able to go to colleges on a combination of financial aid: scholarships, need-based federal grants and student loans. My three sisters graduated from college and are doing well in their careers.

For the past decade, I have worn a bracelet on my right wrist, the end shaped like a screen door hook, to remind me of where we came from. I know that I will never forget my past, but I wear it as a reminder nonetheless. It reminds me of just how far, with God’s grace, I have come.

I don’t know what will happen to the kids that are growing up in El Moro. As I look into their eyes, I know that even under optimal circumstances, they will not have the same chance to advance as a poor kid growing up in the United States. If they reach the peak of their profession, they will be limited in their ability to travel.

Of course, they will enjoy certain benefits that kids in the states may never have—guaranteed access to health care and, if they pass certain tests, a free college education. The down side—or the up side, depending on your point-of-view—is that instead of commanding salaries commensurate with their accomplishments, these future adults will have meager take-home pay and won’t be able to purchase a home or a car.

If they have dreams of owning a business, those hopes quickly vanish with the realization that most businesses in Cuba are owned by the government, including Havana’s best restaurants.

When I look at this community, I realize that even growing up in “The Bottom,” I had ample opportunities to follow my dreams. Children everywhere, including Cuba, should have that same chance.