LBH: The Expats China Doesn’t Want to Admit Are the Ones Who Stay

Let’s be honest—there’s a certain kind of expat in China who walks into a café with a thermos of lukewarm coffee, a slightly-too-big hoodie, and a look that says “I survived the 10-hour flight and now I’m here to teach ‘The Great Gatsby’ to 14-year-olds who only care about TikTok dances.” This person? They’re the legendary LBH—Losers Back Home. And yes, the nickname is *exactly* as cheeky and slightly cruel as it sounds. But why does this label stick like instant noodles to a cheap plastic bowl? Is it because their accent sounds like a poorly tuned GPS? Because they still don’t know how to fold a paper crane? Or perhaps because they *do* know how to fold a crane but still can’t find a job back home? (Spoiler: it’s all of the above, plus a side of irony.)

Now, don’t get us wrong—there are *plenty* of English teachers in China who are brilliant, passionate, and somehow manage to survive on instant noodles while writing poetry about the cultural differences between *The Catcher in the Rye* and Chinese middle school math drills. But the myth of the LBH has taken root like bamboo in a storm—tall, fast-growing, and impossible to uproot. It’s the kind of nickname that gets thrown around at expat barbecues like a slightly stale drumstick: “Oh, you’re teaching English? *Ohhhh*, so you’re one of *those* people.” It’s not *all* bad, though. Some teachers embrace the label like a badge of honor. “Yeah, I’m a loser back home,” they’ll shrug, “but here, I’m the only one who knows how to properly spell ‘pronunciation’ without Googling it.”

And let’s be real—there *was* a time when China’s English teaching scene was a bit of a soft landing pad for the unemployed, underqualified, or just plain desperate. Back in the early 2010s, if you could speak English and had a passport with a vaguely recognizable country on it (looking at you, Ireland), you could walk into a language center in Chengdu and be handed a contract with a salary that made your mom cry (in a good way). It wasn’t always about passion for pedagogy—it was about surviving. But even then, the bar wasn’t *that* low. Most of us weren’t exactly “back home” losers. We were just people who needed a change, a paycheck, and maybe a chance to finally understand why “I’m not a morning person” is a universal truth.

But here’s the hilarious twist: the same people who mocked the LBH are now applying for the same jobs. The moment you’re in the middle of Beijing’s winter wind, freezing your toes off while trying to explain “past perfect tense” to a teenager who just wants to know if you’ve seen *Doraemon*, you start questioning your life choices. And yet… you’re still here. Why? Because you discovered the secret: teaching English in China isn’t just about teaching. It’s about *survival*, *adventure*, and occasionally, finding your soulmate at a karaoke night in Sanya. Speaking of Sanya—yes, that tropical paradise with palm trees, turquoise water, and a surprisingly high number of expat English teachers sipping coconut water on the beach? Yeah, that Sanya. If you're looking to escape the chaos of the mainland and find a quieter, sunnier spot to teach and possibly fall in love with a fisherman named Kai, you might want to check out **Sanya Jobs**—because even LBHs deserve a vacation with a view.

The truth? Most English teachers in China aren’t losers. They’re dreamers, wanderers, and occasionally, people who just really needed a reason to leave their 9-to-5 in a cubicle farm. Some are PhDs in literature who now teach “How to Write a Paragraph” to kids who think “paragraph” is a type of snack. Others are former baristas who now grade essays on *Macbeth* while debating whether “dramatic irony” is real or just a fancy way of saying “people are dumb.” But here’s the thing—they’re also the ones organizing charity drives, teaching local kids how to sing “Happy Birthday” in English, and surviving on 30 yuan a day while still sending money home. They’re not losers. They’re *reluctant adventurers*.

And honestly? If being a loser back home means you’re brave enough to pack up your life and start over in a country where the language, food, and traffic rules are all like a puzzle with missing pieces, then maybe the LBH label should come with a medal. Because let’s be real—most people who *can* afford to stay home in their comfy slippers and their 40-hour workweek would never make it past the first month of Chinese school politics, questionable hygiene standards, and the eternal struggle to get a working toilet. No, the real losers are the ones who *didn’t* come.

So the next time someone calls you an LBH, just smile, sip your baijiu (or matcha latte, whichever you prefer), and say, “You’re right—I *was* a loser back home.” Then add, “But here? I’m the one who taught a 10-year-old how to say ‘I love you’ in English… and also taught them to properly pronounce ‘sushi.’” That’s not a failure. That’s *impact*. And if that’s not enough to earn you a little respect—even in the eyes of the judgmental expat circle—then nothing will. Especially not a job listing in Sanya that says “English Teacher Wanted (Must Be Slightly Weird and Have a Good Sense of Humor).” Now *that’s* the kind of opportunity that only a true LBH would appreciate.

Categories:
Beijing,  Chengdu,  English, 

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