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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, 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 golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one academic calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like 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 younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.