When I was a kid, our family went for a swim at North Park Pool one afternoon. At the entrance there was a small African-American boy who was crying. My dad asked him why, and he explained that he wasn’t allowed to enter the pool because he was wearing cut-offs.
My dad didn’t say a word, but got back in the car and drove away. When he returned we asked him where he had gone. Apparently he had to drive some distance (it was Sunday) to find an open store. He then bought a swim suit with money that was in rather short supply at that time, which he gave to the kid upon his return.
It was only after some prodding that Dad told us all of this. It wasn’t accompanied with him preaching a Sunday sermon about how we should live our lives. He didn’t have to.