Now, picture this: in a cozy café in Hangzhou, two expats sip lattes like they’re in a Netflix drama. One is sipping a “caramel macchiato with extra foam,” the other is stirring a “black coffee, no sugar, just existential dread.” Suddenly, the air thickens. “So, what do you do?” the first one asks. The second sighs, “I teach English.” The first one pauses. Then, with a smirk that could curdle milk: “Ah… LBH.” It’s not an insult—it’s a genre. Like saying “I’m a poet” or “I’m a minimalist.” Except instead of respect, you get a silent judgment that says, *“You left your country’s job market to teach ‘I like apples’ to 12-year-olds in a red-brick classroom.”* And somehow, that’s supposed to make you a lesser human.
But let’s be real—how many of us actually *want* to be a corporate lawyer in London, a data analyst in Toronto, or a marketing manager in Sydney? Probably fewer than the number of expats who’ve ever cried while watching *The Crown* on a 16-inch laptop in a 20-square-meter apartment. Some of us are here because the job market back home was like a haunted house with no exits. Others are here because their last employer said, “We’re restructuring… and, uh, you’re not part of the future.” And now they’re teaching “What’s your favorite color?” to students who’ve never seen a real rainbow—because their last one was in a smartphone filter.
And yet, somehow, we’re the ones getting the side-eye at a karaoke night. “Oh, you teach English?” someone says, as if I just confessed to being a professional mime. “Well, that’s… interesting.” It’s like being told you’re a chef because you once boiled pasta. But here’s the thing: teaching English in China isn’t just about grammar drills and “fill in the blank.” It’s about surviving 30 kids who think “I am funny” is the funniest sentence ever. It’s about explaining the difference between “I like” and “I am liking” while dodging a rogue rubber band. It’s about being the emotional support adult to a 14-year-old who cried because his dad didn’t buy him the latest iPhone. That’s not failure—it’s a full-time job with zero vacation and a 90% chance of being asked, “Can you teach me how to say ‘I love you’ in English… for my crush?”
Let’s not forget the irony: while LBHs are mocked for being “unemployable” back home, China’s education system is *desperate* for them. Schools in second-tier cities pay more than some tech startups in Berlin. You can afford a scooter, a decent internet connection, and even a pet iguana if you’re brave enough. Meanwhile, back home, the same person might be working a soul-crushing 9-to-5, sending emails that go unanswered, and eating cold rice for dinner because “the microwave is broken again.” So who’s really the loser? The one making 12,000 RMB a month, learning Mandarin curses from students, and accidentally calling a student “your father’s mother” in class? Or the one in Manchester, still applying for jobs with a résumé that says “passionate, hardworking, and loves spreadsheets”?
And let’s talk about the real LBHs—the ones who *aren’t* teachers. The ones who’ve been here for five years, still living in the same apartment, still sending their résumés into the void, still saying, “I’m just waiting for the right opportunity.” Meanwhile, the LBH teacher is out teaching kids how to say “I am sorry” with a proper tone, buying baozi for the school staff, and trying to explain the difference between “there,” “their,” and “they’re” without sounding like a grammar Nazi. They’re not losers. They’re survivors. They’re the ones who turned a failed career into a second life—complete with a pet cat, a YouTube channel about Chinese idioms, and a secret stash of pickled ginger.
So the next time someone calls you an LBH, just smile, take a sip of your bubble tea (with extra boba, of course), and say: “Yes, I’m a loser. But I’m a *cool* loser. I’ve seen more of China than most tourists. I’ve survived a dragon boat festival. I once taught a 10-year-old how to say ‘I’m not a robot’ in English—and he believed me.” And honestly? That’s a legacy. That’s better than a corner office with a view of a parking lot.
In the end, the LBH label isn’t a verdict—it’s a punchline. A joke we tell ourselves to survive the chaos. Because in China, being an English teacher isn’t about failing back home. It’s about showing up, laughing through the mistakes, and realizing that sometimes, the most “unsuccessful” people end up living the most colorful lives. So here’s to the LBHs—the misfits, the dreamers, the ones who traded spreadsheets for street food and grammar rules for real-life adventure. You’re not losers. You’re legends in the making—just with slightly worse Wi-Fi.
Categories:
Chengdu, Hangzhou, Toronto, English,
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