45: You're not an expat, you're an English Teacher

Contemplating my easily derided job

I see it in their eyes.

They kind of glaze over as the person begins to adjust their initial impression of me. If I’m being unkind to myself, I think that some respect they might have had for me is lost. If I’m being kind, they might have some pity. Regardless, I’m now one of those. A class of expat I imagine all the others like to roll their eyes at. I also imagine the eye glazing contains a feeling of relief—they’re not part of that class or they have moved out of it.

The English Teacher Class.

To some, the class is very base. You’re not an expat, you’re an English teacher. Or something to that effect. That was the statement I glanced at recently from a social media post by a notable culture writer who lives here.

I am not viewed as their equal. I’m a nothing; a tired cliché of a foreigner in Asia.

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Just like how I wrote that anyone can be critic, in Asia, anyone can try to be an English teacher. Official requirements would be a bachelor’s degree and x-amount of TEFL hours. People speak of places that will accept less than that off the record, but my sense is that the government has cracked down on such practices post-Covid. So the stereotype of the perpetually hung over backpacker who funds their way through a year in Asia by picking up teaching jobs along the way is increasingly hard to find.

Especially as most contracts are for one year. I believe the new stereotype is largely coloured by people taking a gap year from life or a burgeoning career. They are in their 20s, looking to travel, and want some time for themselves before Adulthood really sets in. Some seem disillusioned with social and economic situations in their home countries.

The more dominant negative view of English teachers would be the man who comes to date and maybe marry a local woman to be able to stay in the country. Some are young, and some are old, seeing Vietnam as retiree paradise. To be cruel: Some seem like former incels who don’t actually like Vietnam but have found a way to find dominance and an easier life here. These men exist, but in my everyday life they’re nowhere to be found. (Because I can see how much time they spend on the computer spewing unhappiness in Facebook groups.)

Escape is essential to both, though, and definitely why I’m part of this class.

But I couldn’t care less about being part of any “true” expat class¹. Because I’ve said before I don’t like thinking of myself as one. The word is impossible to avoid here, but I internally fight seeing myself as one, even if my job and language forever tie me to it. The word only conjures images of power and privilege, and aren’t we supposed to be trying to dismantle these things? Wouldn’t looking at this word be an easy way to interrogate? I mean if I think about examples in my home country of Canada, the Filipino person who pours your coffee at Tim Horton’s or the person from Jamaica who harvests your fruit are not given the title of expat—they are foreign workers.

I also couldn’t care less about the writer’s slight against people like me because it’s too banal. To cut deeper, they should have said:

You’re not an English Teacher, you’re a babysitter.