Now, picture this: a 30-something with a degree in Creative Writing from a mid-tier UK university, a failed relationship on the horizon, and a job offer from a private language school in Chengdu. “It’s not a dead-end,” they say to themselves, “it’s a pivot.” But the moment they step foot in an expat Facebook group, they’re greeted with the cold stare of judgment. “Oh, you’re an English teacher? So you’re… an LBH?” The air grows heavy. The joke lands like a dropped dumpling—loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. But why? Is it really about the job? Or is it about the *idea* of the job? Because let’s be real: teaching English in China isn’t some last resort for washed-up dreamers. It’s often a bold leap into the unknown for people chasing adventure, cultural immersion, and a chance to *live* before they settle into a cubicle farm with a soul-crushing commute.
And yet, the LBH label keeps clinging like a stubborn backpack on a backpacker who swore they’d leave it behind. There’s this weird cultural paradox: on one hand, expats are told to “just be here for the experience,” and on the other, they’re mocked for *being* the experience. The irony? The very people who come to China to escape the grind of corporate life are now being labeled as relics of it. It’s like being called a “tourist” while riding a rickshaw through a lantern-lit alley in Dali. The joke stings because it’s built on a truth: yes, some teachers didn’t land their dream jobs back home. But so did most of us. The difference? They didn’t quit. They packed a suitcase, learned how to say “bǐnggāo” without sounding like a confused robot, and showed up anyway.
Now, let’s be honest—there are a few LBHs. Not because they’re losers, but because the visa system *does* attract a certain type of person. The ones with limited options, the ones with student debt, the ones who just needed a change of scenery. But here’s a spicy truth: *most* English teachers in China are not failures. They’re storytellers, improvisers, and emotional support systems for students who’ve never seen a foreigner who wasn’t a tourist. They’re the ones who stay up late correcting essays on "the importance of recycling" while drinking bubble tea and wondering if the moon in Beijing looks any different than the one back in Glasgow. They’re the ones who teach kids how to say “I love you” in English, even though they’re terrified of saying it in real life.
And speaking of real life—what about the people who *aren’t* English teachers? The ones working in high-powered tech firms in Shenzhen or running NGOs in Kunming? Are they immune to judgment? Nope. The same expat circles that dunk on LBHs are often the same ones who roll their eyes at “corporate drones” or “digital nomads with no real skills.” The truth is, we all wear labels. We all carry invisible badges that say “you’re not quite good enough” or “you’re here for the wrong reasons.” But here’s the twist: *the LBH isn’t a punchline. It’s a mislabel.* It’s a lazy shorthand for a complex group of individuals who are, more often than not, the most adaptable, open-minded, and wildly creative people you’ll meet in a foreign land.
So, what’s the real reason this stigma lingers? It’s not about the job—it’s about fear. Fear that we’re all just running from something. Fear that we’re not *enough*. And yes, some teachers do come to China with broken dreams. But others come with *new* dreams—dreams of learning Mandarin, of adopting a rescue dog from a local shelter, of writing a novel in a teahouse in Hangzhou. They’re not losers. They’re survivors. They’re rebels. They’re people who looked at a spreadsheet titled “Career Path Options” and said, “Nah, I’ll go teach grammar in a city where the streets glow like a dragon’s breath at night.”
I’ll leave you with this: the next time you hear someone call an English teacher in China an LBH, don’t nod in agreement. Look them in the eye and say, “Actually, they’re the only ones brave enough to start over in a country where the language sounds like a symphony of tiny bells.” Because let’s be real—most of us are just trying to find our way. And sometimes, that way leads through a classroom in Xi’an, a bicycle ride along the Yangtze, and a conversation over a steaming bowl of hotpot that somehow changes everything.
In the end, the LBH myth isn’t about who’s a failure. It’s about who dares to believe in second chances—and that, my friends, is the most human thing of all.
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Beijing, Chengdu, Hangzhou, Kunming, Shenzhen,
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