The term LBH—Losers Back Home—sticks like gum on a shoe. Why? Because it’s the ultimate insult for someone who’s “failed” to make it in their home country. But here’s the kicker: many of these teachers are *not* failures. They’re just… overqualified for the jobs they’re doing. Think of it as the academic equivalent of being a chef who can’t find work in a Michelin-starred restaurant but ends up running a food truck. The irony is so thick you could slice it with a butter knife.
The stereotype isn’t just about job status; it’s a cultural clash. In China, teaching English is seen as a “last resort” for foreigners, a job that’s both respected and ridiculed. It’s like being the guy who’s the best at trivia but gets stuck hosting a low-budget game show. Meanwhile, expats who work in tech or finance are the cool kids at the party, sipping champagne while the LBH crowd sips lukewarm tea. The hierarchy is clear: if you’re not building apps or negotiating deals, you’re not *truly* contributing to the global economy.
But let’s not forget the absurdity. How does a person with a degree in literature end up teaching kids to say “I like pizza” in a village where the only pizza is frozen and sold by a man in a hat? It’s a riddle with no answer, except maybe “because the visa requires it.” And yet, these teachers often end up becoming the heart of their communities. They’re the ones who organize charity drives, teach kids to play chess, or start language exchange meetups. The LBH label feels like a joke someone told before the punchline was ready.
There’s also the expat community’s own role in perpetuating the myth. It’s like a group of people who all agree to pretend they’re not in a cult, but every time someone mentions their job, they all gasp in unison. “Oh no, you’re an English teacher?!” It’s the literary equivalent of a “What’s your sign?” moment, but with more judgment and fewer horoscopes. The truth? Many LBHs are just as passionate about their work as the “successful” expats, they’re just stuck in a system that values status over substance.
And then there’s the internet, where the LBH label has taken on a life of its own. Memes, forums, and TikTok videos all contribute to the narrative that teaching English in China is a career dead end. But here’s the twist: some of the most successful expats in China started as LBHs. Think of it as the “I was once a loser, but now I’m a legend” trope, except the “legend” part is still in progress. It’s like the ultimate underdog story, but with more homework grading and fewer victory laps.
The real question isn’t why English teachers are called LBHs—it’s why anyone thinks that label defines them. After all, who needs a title when you’ve got a classroom full of kids who can’t wait to learn? Sure, the LBH joke is funny, but it’s also a reminder that sometimes, the people who seem like they’re on the sidelines are actually the ones keeping the game going.
So, to the LBHs of the world: your job might not be glamorous, but it’s far more impactful than the expat community gives you credit for. You’re not losers—you’re the unsung heroes of cross-cultural exchange, one grammar lesson at a time. And if someone calls you a loser, just remember: the only thing you’re losing is the chance to be taken seriously by people who’ve never seen a student’s face light up when they finally get the past tense right. (Bonus joke: Why don’t English teachers in China ever get cold? Because they’re always in a warm classroom—and a warm heart.)
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