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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

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

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're 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 drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular 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 trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire 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 mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous 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 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, 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, image is never neutral.