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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is visible."

The suit Mamdani selects is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.