Efraín’s MBA years blended the extraordinary with the absurd—from meeting Carlos Santana’s son during the AMR project to navigating the quirks of class fundraising, where even a single dollar could make a statement.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 28 “Thesis”

The AMR project was one of the defining experiences of my time at Anderson—a deep dive into real-world business problems that took us beyond the confines of the classroom. Our project with the Grammy Foundation opened doors I never imagined, introducing us to a kaleidoscope of industry professionals, each with stories that could fill novels.

One particular focus group session at the Grammy Foundation's offices stood out. We had gathered a diverse array of musicians and music industry insiders, eager to glean their insights. As the conversation unfolded, one of the participants, a laid-back guy in his 30s, casually dropped a line that froze the entire room.

"My dad has won over X amount of Grammy´s and sold X million records."

There was a moment of stunned silence as we all processed what had just been said. Carlos Santana—the man who had shredded his way through Woodstock, won 11 Grammys, and whose music transcended generations—was this guy’s dad?

I caught myself glancing around, half-expecting someone to burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. But no one did. It was real. We were sitting across from Santana’s son.

"Yeah, uh... we're familiar with his work," one of my teammates finally managed to say, triggering a ripple of nervous chuckles.

It was a humbling reminder that Los Angeles had a way of throwing curveballs. One minute, you're running focus groups for class credit. The next, you're swapping ideas with rock 'n' roll royalty.

Fundraising, on the other hand, was a less glamorous but no less integral part of the MBA experience. As second-years, we were repeatedly nudged—okay, hounded—by UCLA to donate to the class fund. The narrative was predictable: contributing to the fund bolstered the school's rankings, and by extension, our own degrees’ prestige.

I understood the logic. Better rankings meant greater value for the Anderson brand, which theoretically benefited us all. But let’s be honest—after forking over six figures for tuition, the thought of giving even more money felt like a stretch. And I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.

Many classmates grumbled that they’d "paid enough already." The last thing they wanted was to be guilt-tripped into more donations.

Our section president, clearly attuned to the growing dissent, addressed the issue with a mix of practicality and humor during one of our classes.

"If you don’t feel like donating," he suggested with a sly grin, "just give a dollar. Or less. Technically, that still counts as a contribution."

There was a collective pause as we processed his words. Then, laughter erupted. It was a brilliant, if cheeky, solution. One dollar—barely enough for a pack of gum—could help keep the rankings afloat without us feeling exploited. Better yet, the administrative costs of processing micro-donations would actually cost UCLA more than the donation itself.

It was the kind of MBA life hack that perfectly captured the spirit of our class—clever, subversive, and dripping with sarcasm.

Not everyone followed through with the dollar donation idea, but the suggestion lived on as part of our section’s lore. In a world where alumni contributions often feel obligatory, we had found a way to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

In the end, the fundraising dilemma wasn’t just about money. It was about how we viewed our relationship with UCLA. Some gave generously, wanting to leave a mark on the institution. Others resisted, skeptical of being squeezed for more.

As for me, I was somewhere in the middle—still riding high from meeting Santana’s son, but now armed with the knowledge that even a single dollar could make a difference (or at least make a statement).