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It’s not just about the job itself; it’s the way it’s perceived. Imagine if someone told you your dream job was “just a gig” because it involved wearing a blazer and correcting grammar mistakes. Suddenly, your passion for literature feels like a red flag. But in China, the stigma isn’t just about the work—it’s about the *perception* of the work. Expats often joke about how the term LBH is used to mock anyone who’s not in a “high-status” job, but the reality is more complicated. Some teachers here are veterans of the corporate world, while others are fresh out of college, and yet, they’re all lumped into the same category. It’s like being told you’re a “loser” for choosing a less glamorous path, even if that path is wildly different for each person.
Then there’s the cultural angle. In China, the education system is a sacred cow, and anyone who dares to teach English is seen as a foreigner with a questionable grip on the language. But here’s the twist: many of these teachers are actually fluent, or at least better at grammar than most locals. The problem? They’re not “official” teachers. The system is so rigid that even the most qualified expats are often relegated to “English assistants,” a title that feels like a euphemism for “we’re not sure what to do with you.” It’s a bit like being told you’re a “guest” at a party, even though you’ve brought the wine.
Personal stories add another layer to this. Take Sarah, a former marketing manager from Toronto who now teaches in Chengdu. “I used to think my career was my identity,” she says. “Now I’m just the lady who corrects ‘I am going to the park’ to ‘I am going to the park’—but with more enthusiasm.” Her humor is sharp, but it’s also a defense mechanism. The same goes for Li Wei, a local teacher who once joked, “If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me if I could teach English, I’d be rich.” The irony is that Li Wei’s English is better than most expats, but the system still sees him as a “helper” rather than a peer.
The stigma also plays into the expat community’s own insecurities. After all, who wants to be the “LBH” when you’re trying to build a life in a foreign country? It’s like being the last person to get a promotion at work, but instead of feeling embarrassed, you’re expected to laugh it off. Some teachers embrace the label, turning it into a badge of honor. “I’m not a loser—I’m a global citizen,” one friend quipped, though it’s clear the phrase still stings. The truth is, the LBH label is less about the teachers and more about the expat culture that’s built its own hierarchy, where being “successful” means working in finance or tech, not teaching.
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For those considering a move, the “Tianjin Jobs Jobs in Tianjin” search might come up as a way to find opportunities, but it’s also a reminder of how the job market in China is as varied as the people who work there. Some teachers find their dream roles in cities like Tianjin, where the blend of tradition and modernity creates a unique environment. Others end up in smaller towns where the job is more about survival than success. Either way, the LBH label is a reminder that not all careers are created equal—and that sometimes, the “loser” label is just a way to make sense of a world that’s too big to fit into a single title.
In the end, the LBH label is a curious mix of humor, misunderstanding, and a touch of truth. It’s a way for expats to bond over shared struggles, but it’s also a way to dismiss the value of teaching in a country that’s as fascinating as it is frustrating. Whether you’re a “loser” or a “global citizen,” the real story is the one you make for yourself. After all, who’s to say that teaching English in China isn’t the most adventurous, if not the most misunderstood, career choice of all?
Categories:
Teachers,
Label,
China,
Expats,
English,
Told,
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