Now, picture this: you’re a 29-year-old with a postgrad degree in Victorian literature, two years of teaching experience, and a tattoo of the Oxford comma. You land a job in Chengdu, where you teach teenagers to write essays on “My Dream Job,” while simultaneously learning to love hot pot and questioning your life choices. And yet, somehow, you’re still labeled as “LBH” by someone who arrived in Beijing with a 3-month visa, a backpack full of expired energy drinks, and a fake degree from “University of Bologna (Online).” It’s like saying all chefs in Michelin-starred restaurants were once homeless—true, some might have been, but the majority? Not even close. The truth is, many English teachers in China are career-changers, adventurers, dreamers, and yes, even people who *did* get rejected from better jobs back home—because it’s not a badge of shame, it’s a badge of *brave reinvention*.
And let’s not forget the real irony: this whole “LBH” thing is often tossed around by other expats who are, well… also LBH. Think about it—someone who left their country after a failed startup, a messy divorce, or a brief stint as a barista at a failing chain coffee shop, now critiques others for doing the same thing they did. It’s like a group of people who all fled their countries after being fired from different jobs, now forming a club where the only rule is “don’t talk about your past.” The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast with a side of existential irony.
But here’s a joke for you: Why don’t English teachers in China ever get invited to the “Elite Expats Only” parties? Because they’re all still waiting for their invitation to *actually* be hired in their home countries. (Spoiler: the party’s already over, and the cake’s been eaten by people who never left.) It’s not that we’re losers—we’re just the ones who took the scenic route. While some stayed in their cubicles, we traded spreadsheets for school uniforms and PowerPoint for poetry lessons. We’re the ones who discovered that teaching a 14-year-old how to use “although” correctly is just as fulfilling as any promotion in a corporate office. And yes, some teachers do drink too much, show up late, or use the word “literally” wrong, but so does everyone else—except maybe the guy who runs the local yoga studio and still lives in his mom’s basement. (Okay, maybe not him.)
The real issue isn’t about the teachers—it’s about perception. We’re not a monolith. We’re ex-actors who wanted to escape the audition circuit, ex-military personnel seeking peace, former journalists chasing truth in a world of clickbait, and yes, even some people who genuinely couldn’t find work in their fields. But guess what? China didn’t ask for our résumés. It asked for our passion, our energy, and our willingness to learn a language that doesn’t have “th” in it. And for that, we’ve taught kids to debate climate change, helped teachers improve their accents, and even written heartfelt letters to their students in the margins of essays. That’s not failure. That’s *impact*.
And let’s be honest—how many people in your home country are doing that? How many of your friends are teaching strangers’ kids how to speak English while surviving on instant noodles and dreams? Not many. Most are still stuck in traffic, staring at Excel sheets, wondering why their soul feels like it’s been outsourced. Meanwhile, we’re in a city where you can buy a bowl of dan dan noodles for less than a dollar, and still feel like we’re living a dream. The “LBH” label? It’s just another way people try to explain something they don’t understand. It’s like calling a bird “a failed airplane.” It’s not wrong—birds *can* fly—but it misses the whole point.
So here’s to the LBHs, the underdogs, the misfits, the dreamers with mismatched socks and a backpack full of books. We didn’t come here because we failed. We came because we dared. We came because we believed that life wasn’t just about climbing a corporate ladder—it’s about climbing mountains, teaching kids to write better, and laughing through the chaos of a language that still makes no sense to us. Sure, we might not have the job titles or the pensions back home, but we have stories. We have dumplings. We have the kind of joy that only comes from surviving a 7:30 AM class after a night of questionable decisions and a questionable Wi-Fi signal.
In the end, whether you’re a seasoned educator or a first-time teacher who once cried because they couldn’t pronounce “thirteen,” the fact remains: you’re not a loser. You’re a pioneer. You’re the one who packed a suitcase, left the familiar, and said, “Hey, China, I’m ready.” And honestly? That’s way more impressive than any LinkedIn headline. So next time someone calls you LBH, just smile, raise your chai, and say: “Actually, I’m the one who finally found a job where I’m not judged for my accent.” And then walk away, because you’ve already won—just by being here, by being you, by being *unapologetically alive in the middle of it all*.
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Beijing, Chengdu, English,
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