Why do expats love to toss around the term like confetti at a parade? Maybe it’s the same reason people snicker at the guy in the office who’s still using a flip phone. There’s a strange allure to the idea that these teachers are somehow “lesser” for choosing to work in a country where the coffee is bitter, the traffic is a warzone, and the only thing hotter than the summer is the judgment from locals. It’s like a cultural version of “I’m not lazy, I’m just on a different schedule.”
Let’s not forget the absurdity of it all. Many LBHs are actually rock stars in their home countries—think of the teacher who once won a national debate championship but ended up in a rural town where the closest thing to a “debate” is arguing over whether the school’s Wi-Fi is “slow.” Or the teacher who taught Shakespeare to kids who’d never heard of the Bard, only to be told by expats that they’re “just here for the free rice.” It’s the ultimate case of “you’re not in Kansas anymore,” but with more existential dread and fewer tornadoes.
There’s also the matter of perception. In China, teaching English is often seen as a “fallback” career, like a secondhand suit that’s been rebranded as “vintage.” But here’s the twist: many of these teachers are the ones who’ve navigated the labyrinth of visa requirements, endured the horror of 100-student classes, and still somehow manage to crack jokes about the “cultural exchange” aspect of their job. They’re the David vs. Goliath of the expat world, except Goliath is a 10-year-old with a 2000-word vocabulary.
Social media has turned the LBH label into a viral phenomenon, with memes and TikTok trends painting these teachers as either tragic figures or comedic relief. It’s the digital equivalent of a reality TV show where the cast is forced to live in a dorm room with a broken heater. But here’s the thing: while the jokes are easy, the reality is far more complex. These teachers are often juggling a dozen responsibilities—teaching, cultural adaptation, and the occasional existential crisis about why they chose this life. It’s like being a superhero without a cape, just a lot of caffeine and a deep love for the English language.
The stigma also has a weirdly romanticized edge. Think of it as the “cultural adventure” trope, where people assume that anyone working in China is either a tragic figure or a daredevil with a passport. It’s the same logic that makes someone think a backpacker in Bali is “living their best life” when, in reality, they’re probably plotting their escape from a mosquito-infested hut. The LBH label is just another way of saying, “I don’t get it, but I’m going to make a joke about it anyway.”
But let’s not forget the power of perspective. What’s a “loser” in one context is a “visionary” in another. Many LBHs are the ones who’ve found a second home in China, built friendships that span continents, and discovered that sometimes the best stories come from the places you never expected. They’re the ones who’ve learned that “cultural immersion” means more than just trying spicy food—it means surviving a 3 a.m. lecture on the history of the Silk Road while your students are still asleep.
In the end, the LBH label is less about the teachers and more about the people who sling the words. It’s a mirror reflecting our own biases, a reminder that stereotypes are just stories we tell ourselves to feel superior. So here’s to the LBHs: the ones who turned “I’m not a failure” into a full-time job, and somehow managed to make it look like a choice. After all, if you can teach a class of 30 students who’ve never heard of “metaphor,” you’ve already earned a trophy—no cape required.
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