Why Zohran Mamdani May Not Be Sworn In as New York’s 111th Mayor After a Surprising Discovery

Zohran Mamdani’s election sent a shockwave through New York City—not because it was improbable, but because of its symbolism. At just 34, he broke through multiple historical barriers at once: the first Muslim mayor, the first mayor of South Asian descent, and the first born on the African continent. His win reflected a shift in a city long defined by diversity but slow to see that diversity represented at the highest levels of government. With his inauguration set for January 2026, the city buzzed with excitement—until a strange historical hiccup surfaced, one with nothing to do with politics and everything to do with a 350-year-old clerical oversight.

Historian Paul Hortenstine had been researching New York’s early leaders and their ties to the transatlantic slave trade when he stumbled onto an obscure archival anomaly. Matthias Nicolls, New York’s sixth mayor, hadn’t served one term as commonly listed—he had served two separate ones, in 1672 and again in 1675. For reasons lost to time, his second term was never counted independently. Unlike other offices where non-consecutive terms are considered separate, New York’s historical records had merged Nicolls’s two terms into one entry.

Correcting that oversight would shift the numbering of every mayor who followed—including the incoming one. Instead of being the 111th mayor, Mamdani would technically be the 112th.

Hortenstine immediately contacted the mayor’s office and provided documentation backing up his discovery. The mistake appeared to originate in a flawed 17th-century record that had simply gone unchallenged for generations. Interestingly, he wasn’t the first to raise the issue. Historian Peter R. Christoph flagged the same discrepancy in 1989, asking how nearly a hundred years’ worth of mayors had been misnumbered. Yet nothing in the official list was ever corrected, and the error lived on, repeated automatically through plaques, ceremonies, and official documents.

With Mamdani set to become a historic figure, the overlooked detail resurfaced with renewed intensity. The revelation triggered a lively debate among scholars, city officials, and New Yorkers themselves. Would the city rewrite its historical roster? Would every mayor’s number shift? Or would tradition override accuracy and leave the list untouched?

What made the whole situation so odd was that the correction had no legal implications whatsoever. Mamdani’s election was secure. His powers would remain unchanged. His administration would move forward as scheduled. The issue existed purely in the symbolic realm—a technicality that had survived since colonial times.

Still, New Yorkers reacted with characteristic flair. Some joked that of course a numbering controversy would surface in a city as historically layered—and historically chaotic—as New York. Others were stunned that such a basic error had gone unnoticed for centuries. And some insisted history should be corrected, even if the mistake had become embedded in tradition. A few observers even joked that Mamdani had already achieved another first: the only mayor to inherit a numbering quandary dating back to the 1600s.

Meanwhile, Mamdani focused entirely on governance. During the transition period, his press briefings revolved around housing affordability, policing reform, transit improvements, small business recovery, and his pledge to lead a city that looked like the people who lived in it. The numbering issue barely registered with him—he addressed it with a laugh and a shrug, saying he was far more concerned about the crises waiting on day one.

Behind closed doors, however, archivists and historians were less amused. Some argued that correcting the list was necessary for the integrity of public records. Others countered that changing a numbering system after 350 years would unleash confusion across textbooks, museum plaques, government documents, and historical markers. New York’s identity, they argued, had long been built on its messy, intertwined, occasionally flawed history. Correcting something so woven into tradition could cause more problems than it solved.

Still, Hortenstine stood firm. To him, accuracy mattered. If history revealed a detail overlooked for centuries, the record should reflect that truth—even if the adjustment was symbolic. Christoph’s research from 1989 had already tried to spark this conversation. Now, with a barrier-breaking mayor stepping into office, the timing felt right.

The story soon transformed from a quiet academic debate to a quirky subplot of one of the city’s most consequential transitions. Local news dug into it with fascination. National outlets mentioned it in passing, noting the irony that even in moments of profound political change, the smallest historical footnotes can steal the spotlight. New Yorkers argued in online forums about whether tradition or precision should prevail.

Yet Mamdani stayed grounded. Ceremony was important, but governing was essential. Whether he stood as the 111th or the 112th mayor, the challenges facing New York remained exactly the same. The city needed bold ideas, steady leadership, and a visionary approach. None of that hinged on a number.

But the discovery carried symbolic weight. It reminded everyone that history is not fixed—it evolves. New details surface. Old mistakes reveal themselves. And sometimes, the story of a city shifts not because of political upheaval, but because someone reading a centuries-old ledger noticed something no one else had bothered to check.

When Mamdani steps up to take the oath, the numbering dispute may still be unresolved. But the city that elected him—a city willing to confront its past and celebrate its future—will be watching a new chapter begin.

The centuries-old error, once forgotten, now becomes a charming footnote to a historic moment. It’s fitting, in a way. New York has always rewritten itself—and sometimes, even the smallest correction becomes part of the story.