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GREENSBORO — Think of that staple of the office cubicle: the picture of the significant other.

It's at once a conversation starter, a bit of office cheer and a statement about who we are.

And, increasingly, it is safe to say, those pictures show someone who is the same sex as the person sitting at the desk.

In some ways, it seems a small measure of progress for Guilford County's gay residents, when compared to hot-button issues such as state-sanctioned gay marriage or gay adoption.

But sometimes, the moments of daily life -- and whether we can be ourselves during those moments -- can go a long way to show exactly how friendly Guilford is for its gay residents.

Do they feel comfortable holding hands walking down the street?

Can they be joined with their significant other in their church?

Do their co-workers know they're out?

Did their parents embrace them when they learned the truth?

Have they even told them?

Although the debate about gay marriage dominates the headlines, the ways gay Guilford residents live their daily lives -- or must alter them -- can mean just as much about how comfortable they feel.

In the end, the answers are mixed.

"I am proud of this city and where we've come," said Gary Palmer, an openly gay man who has long been active in civic affairs. "Because I remember when we were just a void, the invisible people."

But that world is a patchwork. What doesn't raise an eyebrow in one place is a recipe for a beating, or at least verbal abuse, in another.

Many say they live in a world of bubbles. Greensboro, Charlotte, Chapel Hill. Safe places, where they feel comfortable to be who they are.

Beyond that, watch your step.

And even within, there can be wrenching issues.

Your friends might not care, but your parents might.

School might be comfortable, but your church might call you a sinner.

In the end, how much has really changed -- and how much is still the same?

Walking down the street

If the simple act of holding hands doesn't feel like a political statement to you, you're probably not gay.

The fact is, there might be few acts that generate so much anxiety and introspection among gays as public displays of affection, even of the mildest sort.

Many rule them out entirely, the lessons learned during years where it could invite harsh words or even fists.

"You used to have worry about getting arrested," said Austin Probst, a member of the Triad Pride Men's Chorus. "People used to get hassled coming out of the bar."

Although younger gays and lesbians are more likely to stroll down the street hand-in-hand, even they are constantly conscious of where they are.

Downtown is one thing. Holding hands at Walmart on Battleground might be something else entirely.

Even neighborhoods have different levels of comfort. Lindley Park, for instance, is a place where gays and lesbians feel comfortable, said Ivan Canada, co-chairman of the Guilford Green Foundation, which raises money for gay causes.

"If you were going to go to High Point Road, I think it's a very different thing," he said.

And going beyond the city? That's another thing entirely.

"I don't have to drive very far from here and I'm anxious about saying that I'm gay," Palmer said. "If I'm riding out to a country store, I don't know how easy that would be."

Sundays

The front of the sanctuary at the Congregational United Church of Christ is dominated by a large, plain wooden cross.

Light filters through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the dark wooden pews and the congregants.

And there, close to the back, is Rainbow Row.

That's what many in the church affectionately call the pews where openly gay couples, some with children, tend to sit.

That makes the church one of the relative few in the area where gay congregants feel welcomed.

Ask gay residents which church they go to, and the same few names pop up. College Park Baptist. Metropolitan Community Church. Unitarian Universalist.

For the most part, if they aren't overtly hostile, churches still aren't exactly welcoming to gays.

"A lot of gay people kind of run from the church," Canada said.

For many, particularly those who grew up with a close relationship with the church, it's a source of inner conflict.

On one hand, they have a lifetime's worth of investment in and connection with the church. On the other, they often are told that their lives -- that they -- are sinful.

"I actually stopped going because of that," said Dereke Clements, who moved here from Los Angeles. "I got tired of hearing those kinds of sermons."

That kind of experience bothers the Rev. Julie Peeples, the longtime pastor at Congregational.

Some years back, she became "painfully aware" of several gay congregants who didn't feel comfortable being seen that way in church.

That didn't sit right with Peeples.

"I felt it was wrong that I could be here with my spouse who I love, openly, and they weren't sure. They didn't feel secure to sit with a partner," she said.

"That just more and more felt wrong -- that 'Don't ask, don't tell.' It just didn't feel right."

So, beginning a decade or so ago, the church began a careful, deliberative process.

They had series of small-group discussions with interested members. They looked at the Bible, the passages that often are cited as justifying anti-gay sentiment. They discussed sexuality, asking gay and straight members alike when, exactly, they knew they were gay or straight.

In the end, the church came around to something of a consensus on the issue. A few people left.

But for most, things went on as before. Lightning didn't strike.

Peeples has little sympathy for the notion of "love the sinner, hate the sin."

"The message that gets transmitted, however kindly, is still you are something less than we are," she said. "It's hard to feel loved by people saying, so sorry, but you're going to burn in hell."

In the classroom

After all these years, Gary Palmer still remembers the dream.

He was in sixth or seventh grade, entering the time between childhood and adulthood.

One night, he dreamed about guys. Desiring them.

"I got up and prayed and prayed and prayed. This just couldn't be," he said.

But it was, and that began years of living in fear and denial.

The idea of expressing his feelings in school in the 1960s was terrifying.

"I was always extremely anxious," he said. "The terror that you would be the guy that was being called 'fag' on the athletic field. ... My gut would just literally clench up."

Adolescence, and the awakening of sexuality, can still be a bewildering and terrifying time for gay students. Many still wait until after graduation to come out.

In some respects, Guilford County is a relatively friendly place for gay students.

Several years ago, the county implemented an anti-discrimination policy that specifically included sexual orientation. And a number of high schools have support groups for gay and lesbian students.

It's easier to be a gay student in Guilford County than it used to be, Palmer said, but that doesn't mean it's easy.

"You try to find a safe haven, a group of people who you are comfortable with," he said. "Not every student can do that."

According to a survey earlier this decade, 39 percent of Guilford's lesbian and gay students reported being harassed or assaulted at school. Nearly one in three said they had skipped a day of school in the past month because they were afraid to go.

Even in that most hospitable of environments, the university, where many gays come out for the first time, there can be differences.

Canada noted that UNCG and Guilford College have large and active gay pride groups. At N.C. A&T, there's nothing like that, he said.

"It's almost, you step back in time," he said.

In the corridors of power

Addison Ore moved here about a dozen years ago from Washington.

She was, it's safe to say, a bit nervous.

"My friends thought, oh my, your life is over, moving to Greensboro," said Ore, executive director of the Triad Health Project, which provides help to people with HIV/AIDS. "It was a bad place to be if you were gay, in people's minds at least."

But the reality turned out to be different.

She went to a meeting of other gay professionals. What she saw stunned her.

"There were over 100 people there. Professors, teachers, and doctors and lawyers and regular people," she said. "A lot of the real players in town are openly gay."

Many say one critical measure of Greensboro's gay-friendliness is found in the corporate boardrooms and city halls in the region.

Palmer, an assistant vice president at Replacements, Ltd. who has served on boards for a range of organizations and efforts, said that acceptance says a lot about the city.

"I've been there and done those as an openly gay person," he said. "The fact that we are not just accepted or tolerated but appreciated is a wonderful thing."

The number of companies that offer same-sex benefits is growing, he said.

Many companies also have anti-discrimination policies that include sexual orientation, he said. Replacements sends out letters to companies it buys from, asking whether they have such a policy. Most do, he said.

The progress in the corporate world is mirrored by strength in politics.

Many point out with pride that North Carolina is the only Southern state that hasn't passed the amendment banning gay marriage, and a statewide anti-bullying bill passed in the latest legislative session.

Still, many say more progress is needed.

In 2006, the then-chairman of Guilford's Republican Party said in a blog post that homosexuality "is as natural as pedophilia."

And marriage is an ongoing debate.

The issue divides the gay community, with some arguing that it's just a word, that as long as the rights are the same, it's too divisive to push for now.

Ore disagrees.

"I think, why shouldn't it be marriage?" she said. "It does matter what the word is. Civil union ... it's not as powerful a word as marriage. That's how we grow up. We think, 'I'm going to grow up and get married.' "

Different perspectives

Palmer didn't come out in high school. Or college. Or even before his wedding.

It would be many years before he was honest with himself, let alone the world.

He married and had children. Finally, it all crumbled.

"I was trying to hard to be the perfect Christian, the perfect kid," he said. "I kept my head ducked real low. When I came out, I felt like I was breathing air for the first time."

Even now, though, those memories can haunt. He's not big into public displays, even feeling self-conscious when straight friends hug him in public.

"I cringe a little," he said. "I carry a lot of baggage with me. All of us of my age do. Our kids are healthier. They've not accumulated as much baggage."

Just as polls show far more accepting attitudes among those in their 30s and younger, a similar generational gap exists in the gay community, with younger gays and lesbians more likely to feel comfortable being out in public or the workplace.

Age isn't the only dividing line.

Some say gay minorities face a different battle than their white counterparts.

Dereke Clements, who is black, said that out gay men are almost nonexistent, at least within the community.

"The black community definitely doesn't accept homosexuality," he said. "You don't even say it."

Canada, the child of mixed-race parents, said he had no role models while growing up.

That's why, a few years ago, he agreed to have his picture placed on a billboard in an ad campaign aimed at showing ordinary gay Greensboro residents.

At first, he hesitated.

"It was a lot," he said. "It takes it to another level."

But he imagines a child seeing that billboard, seeing someone who might look something like himself and thinking that maybe it would be OK to be who he is.

That thought makes the billboard worth it.

'I can stay here in Greensboro and be gay'

When Canada graduated from Southeast Guilford, he didn't think he'd ever come back. Chapel Hill, then Washington.

But a few years ago, something funny happened.

He came back. Action Greensboro was in the middle of an effort to explore ways to make the city more competitive.

Among those was embracing diversity, specifically including sexual orientation.

Canada, who got involved in that effort, was impressed.

"I saw Greensboro a lot differently," he said. "I said, 'Maybe it's worth a try.' " He's now considering pursing an MBA., but he can easily imagine building the rest of his career in Greensboro.

"Absolutely, I would come back here in a heartbeat. I consider this my community. I love it here."

But not everyone sees things that way.

Laila Nur is ready to move out as soon as it makes sense, heading west to Seattle. She's tired of the looks.

"There are certain places where you go, and it's a dead zone," she said. "If you don't look like me, have the same sexual preference, the same religion, you're going to be cast out."

But even Nur concedes there has been change in recent decades.

And that change is what has many gay people feeling it's OK to stay.

"I can stay here in Greensboro and be gay," Palmer said. "I can go to Greensboro and be gay and be fine and be happy."

Contact Jason Hardin at 373-7021 or at jason.hardin@news-record.com