Now, picture this: you’re a 32-year-old former barista from Manchester who once dreamed of writing novels, only to realize that publishing a book was less likely than finding a parking spot in London during rush hour. So you pack your bags, hop on a 14-hour flight, and land in Hangzhou with a one-year contract and a “Teaching English in China” badge that feels more like a consolation prize than a career milestone. Suddenly, you're not a "failed writer"—you're a "resourceful survivor with a TOEFL score." And yet, at a weekend karaoke night, someone says, “Oh, you’re from the LBH brigade? I thought you’d be stuck in some tiny classroom, grading essays about “My Holiday in the USA.”” Cue the internal monologue: *I am not a loser. I am a digital nomad with a visa.* But also, *I did just spend three hours correcting “I am go to school” on a student’s homework. So maybe?*
The truth is, the LBH label isn’t born from malice—it’s born from confusion, stereotypes, and a collective unconscious that thinks all foreigners in China must be either: 1) rich tech execs, 2) undercover spies, or 3) people who couldn’t get jobs back home. And since English teachers make up the largest demographic of expats in China—like the silent majority of the foreign workforce—they become the default punchline. It’s like saying “Oh, you’re a doctor?” and then someone else mutters, “Well, at least you’re not one of those people who teaches English in Shenyang.” It’s not fair. It’s not accurate. And honestly, it’s more than a little bit lazy.
But let’s be real—some of the stories behind the LBH label are actually kind of funny. Imagine a group of expats arguing over who has the most “unimpressive” job title. “I was a junior copywriter in Amsterdam,” says one. “I wrote emails for a company that sold pet food.” “Wait,” interjects another, “I was a university lecturer in English literature… in a town where the biggest tourist attraction is a statue of a man holding a fish.” They pause. Then someone whispers, “So… are we all LBH?” And the room erupts in laughter—because no one’s actually *that* bad. In fact, many of these so-called “losers” are PhDs, former journalists, artists, or musicians who just needed a fresh start, a new language, and a chance to eat something that isn’t cold beans and regret.
And let’s talk about the job itself. Teaching English in China isn’t like flipping burgers—it’s like being a cultural ambassador with a PowerPoint and a dream. You’re not just teaching grammar; you’re explaining why “I am going to the store” sounds weird to a 12-year-old who’s never seen a Walmart. You’re helping students dream of studying abroad, while quietly wondering if you’ll ever get a promotion that doesn’t involve “more students per class.” You’re also the one who has to explain why “soda” is called “cola” in China, and why “I’m sorry” doesn’t mean “I’m not sorry” in a formal apology. It’s a job that demands patience, empathy, and the ability to laugh at your own pronunciation mistakes. That’s not a loser’s skillset—that’s a superhero’s.
So here’s a joke for you: *Why did the English teacher in Chongqing break up with the tour guide?*
Because every time they went on a trip, she’d say, “Let’s go to the Great Wall,” and he’d reply, “Wait, did you mean *to* the Great Wall or *at* the Great Wall?”
*(Silence. Then someone in the group mutters, “That’s not even funny… but I still laughed.”)*
At the end of the day, the LBH label is less about who you are and more about how you’re perceived through the foggy lens of expat stereotypes. It’s a label that sticks because it’s easy—like blaming rain for being wet. But those who wear it? They’re not losers. They’re pioneers. They’re the ones who trade cozy apartments in Dublin for 300-square-foot dorm rooms in Kunming, not because they failed, but because they dared to try something bigger, messier, and far more beautiful than a 9-to-5. They’re the ones who, when asked, “Why China?” can say, “Because I wanted to live a story, not just write one.”
So the next time someone calls you an LBH—smile. Sip your tea. And remember: the world doesn’t need more perfect resumes. It needs more people who’ve stared down uncertainty, taught “present simple” to a class of 40 kids, and still showed up with a smile. That’s not a loser. That’s legend material. And if your story ends in a small city in Sichuan with a worn-out notebook, a half-empty thermos, and a heart full of stories? Well, honey, that’s not failure. That’s *fame*.
Categories:
Beijing, Shenyang, Chengdu, Chongqing, Hangzhou, Kunming, Sichuan, English,
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