My last name is Igaraividez, which is not the easiest to say out loud. As a kid, I got made fun of for it. Kids would call me things like Iggy, "Igadabla bla bla bla," or my personal favorite “I got diabetes.”

My name is my father’s, and growing up in our household, my father was not someone to be brought up. My mom and dad divorced when I was 2, and then we just never heard from him again. So instead of asking questions about my father, my curiosity and obsession instead turned towards my last name.

In 2016, during a work trip where we gathered folks from our global offices, a man from Spain noticed my name tag. He told me that the "Igar" and the "videz" did mean something, but he didn’t know exactly what. After work, I Googled my name again, just out of habit, and right then… I found something.

Right there, the second result on the first page of search results, was my father’s obituary. I was shocked. I didn’t really know what to feel. I called my mom and she confirmed it. She knew but didn’t want to tell me because I had had a particularly stressful year as I moved from New York City to San Francisco. And still, I did not know how to feel. I mean, how do you grieve someone who was a stranger to you yet half the reason for your existence?

That night, I felt sad. I felt sad because somehow I just knew he died alone. The next morning, I got on the phone with my mom, and that conversation quickly turned into a full download of all things my father. I learned that he was funny. He was really funny. I learned that they met a disco club in Chicago. I learned that he was highly addicted to cocaine and it was most likely the cause of his early death. I realized I also felt sad because deep down, I thought maybe one day, if I ever got famous for something, he might come try to find me. That was no longer a possibility. But through my mother’s words, I got to know him for the first time in my life. And today I no longer scour over the internet, because I now know everything I ever needed to know about my last name.