Mamdani may not be sworn in as NYC's 111th mayor after a massive discovery.ll
Zohran Mamdani May Not Be NYC’s 111th Mayor After All-lllllllllllllllllllllll
Self-described Democratic socialist Zohran Mamdani will make history on January 1, 2026, as the first Muslim mayor of New York City and one of the youngest mayors the city’s had in over a hundred years. But a historian now says that Mamdani may not even be the 111th mayor.
Mamdani won the election with 50.78% of the vote, beating Republican Curtis Sliwa and independent Andrew Cuomo. The election was closely watched in November.
The race got the most participants since 1993 and got a lot of attention across the country, in part because people like President Donald Trump criticized it.
At the age of 34, Mamdani is the city’s youngest mayor since the 1800s, and he is now a well-known member of the progressive left. The move from being a State Assembly member to the mayor of the city was mostly due to his grassroots work in Queens and his appeal to young voters.
But Paul Hortenstine, a historian, says that the number in Mamdani’s title is wrong.
“I would hope that the city takes the history of mayors very seriously,” Hortenstine said.
While looking into early mayors’ ties to the slave trade, he says he found proof that a mayoral term in the 1670s was wrongly not included in the official record.
Hortenstine told The Gothamist that he found records showing that Matthias Nicolls served a second term in 1675, but it was not consecutive. A piece of information the city forgot to write down.
Since then, officials have said that they knew about the research. Ken Cobb from the city’s Department of Records said the difference was surprising but worth looking into.
Hortenstine and historian Peter R. Christoph say that the mistake seems to go back to a city guide from 1841 that left out Nicolls’ second term.
“This was in 1675. So then, when I later looked through the official list of the city, I noticed that they had missed this term,” Hortenstine said.
Every record after that one made the same mistake.
Removing one term, like with US presidents, shifts the whole sequence that comes after because nonconsecutive terms count separately.
If the finding is formally accepted, Mamdani would be recorded as the 112th mayor instead of the 111th.
Mamdani’s power and move to the new job are not affected by the issue, but rather the historical numbers that go with his office. If the city changes the record, the materials for the inauguration and future records will just need to be updated.
In 1989, Peter R. Christoph wrote about the oversight in the “Record of the New York Genealogical and Biographical Society.”
“Edward I. Koch is the 105th Mayor of New York,” his essay began. “The City Of New York Official Directory says so. So does The New York Times. But they are wrong: He is the 106th. Not only is he misnumbered, but so is everyone else after Mayor No. 7. It is a mind-boggling thought: 99 mayors misnumbered — most of them gone to the grave, secure in the knowledge of their place in history, but all of them numerically out of whack. How could such a thing happen?”
Cobb was unable to locate any reference to Nicolls’ second term during a recent visit to the municipal archives. He did not, however, contest Hortenstine’s conclusions.
“We’re the keepers of the records. We’re not the creators of the records,” Cobb said. “It’s a good question. Who noticed this discrepancy? Apparently, this historian did.”
A correction to the official list of mayors has a precedent. Charles Lodwick, who held office from 1694 to 1695, was appointed as the 21st mayor in 1937.
“Everyone jumped up a number, and that’s been the way ever since,” Cobb said.
It’s unclear if Nicolls’ full place in mayoral history will be acknowledged by the Adams administration.
The first deputy mayor, Randy Mastro, claimed not to have heard of the missing mayor.
“I think we will leave this issue for historians and — for a change — the next administration,” Mastro said.
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.” But the next mo
On my birthday, my sister smashed the cake straight into my face, laughing as she watched me fall backward, blood mixing with the frosting. Everyone said, “It’s just a joke.”
But the next morning in the emergency room, the doctor studied my X-ray and immediately called 911—because what he saw… exposed a horrifying truth.
Part One: “It’s Just a Joke”
On my birthday, the room smelled like sugar and candles and cheap champagne. A pink cake sat in the center of the table, my name written across it in looping frosting. Everyone was laughing. Phones were out. Someone shouted for me to make a wish.
My sister stood closest to me.
She grinned, eyes bright with something that wasn’t kindness. Before I could even lean forward, her hands slammed the cake straight into my face.
The impact was harder than anyone expected.
I felt myself stumble backward, my heel catching on the rug. There was a sharp crack as my head hit the edge of the table, then the floor. For a split second, the room spun in white and pink. I tasted sugar—and then iron.
Blood mixed with frosting, dripping down my chin.
People screamed, then laughed nervously.
“Oh my God,” someone said, still chuckling. “It’s just a joke!”
My sister laughed the loudest. “Relax! You’re so dramatic.”
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision blurred, and the ceiling swayed like it was floating. Someone wiped my face with a napkin, smearing blood across my cheek.
“You’re fine,” my mother said quickly. “Don’t ruin the mood.”
I remember thinking how strange it was that my ears were ringing louder than the music.
I remember the taste of frosting as I swallowed blood.
I remember waking up hours later in my bed, alone, my head throbbing, my phone full of messages telling me not to be “too sensitive.”
By morning, I couldn’t lift my arm.
Part Two: The X-Ray That Changed Everything
The emergency room smelled like disinfectant and sleepless nights. The doctor asked how it happened. I hesitated, then said quietly, “I fell.”
He nodded, unconvinced, and ordered X-rays “just to be safe.”
I lay on the cold table staring at the ceiling, replaying the laughter over and over in my head. It’s just a joke. That sentence hurt almost as much as my skull.
When the doctor returned, he wasn’t smiling.
He stared at the image on the screen for a long time. Too long.
Then he left the room without a word.
Minutes later, he came back—with a nurse, a security officer, and his phone pressed to his ear.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I need emergency services. Immediately.”
My heart started pounding. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He turned to me, his voice careful. “This isn’t a simple fall.”
He pointed to the X-ray. Even I could see it—fine fractures branching like cracks in glass, not just in my skull, but along my collarbone and ribs. Old fractures. Healed wrong. Layered.
“These injuries happened at different times,” he said gently. “Some weeks apart. Some months.”
I stared at the screen, my mouth dry.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
He met my eyes. “This pattern isn’t accidental. And the impact that brought you in today could have killed you.”
The word killed echoed in my ears.
“Who did this to you?” he asked softly.
I thought of my sister’s grin. My parents’ laughter. All the times I’d been shoved, tripped, “joked” into walls. All the times I’d been told I was clumsy. Sensitive. Overreacting.
My hands began to shake.
“I think…” My voice broke. “I think it was never a joke.”
Part Three: When Laughter Turns Into Sirens
The police arrived quietly. Calmly. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d seen something like me.
They didn’t accuse. They asked questions.
Who was there last night?
Who pushed you?
How often do you get hurt?
For the first time, I didn’t minimize. I didn’t protect anyone. I told the truth.
By evening, my phone was exploding.
My mother crying.
My father furious.
My sister screaming that I had “ruined everything.”
“You’re exaggerating!” she yelled over voicemail. “It was cake! Everyone saw it!”
Everyone had seen it.
That was the horrifying truth.
Everyone had seen it—and laughed.
The investigation didn’t take long. Videos surfaced. Old medical records were reviewed. Witnesses contradicted themselves. Patterns became impossible to ignore.
What started as a “birthday prank” became an assault case.
What they called humor was documented as violence.
I was moved to a different room that night, monitored closely, safe for the first time in years. As I lay there, ice wrapped around my head, I realized something terrifying and freeing all at once:
If that cake hadn’t been smashed into my face…
If I hadn’t fallen just right…
The truth might have stayed buried forever.
Sometimes it takes breaking something visible to expose what’s been shattered for years.
