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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times 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 selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: 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 special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and 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 property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one academic refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "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 sign of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully 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 read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is common," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.