Many years ago, I read in one of Bennett Cerf’s books a story about a European author who was visiting the United States in the days of Jim Crow; it was so long ago I can’t remember who the story was about.
He was in a bus station with a friend when he needed to use the restroom. He headed towards the door labeled “Colored” (I’m old enough to remember doors labeled “Colored”).
His friend, somewhat panicked, said, “That’s for colored people!”
He answered, “I am colored. I am pink.”