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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "adult". However, before lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," notes men's fashion writer 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 rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. 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." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, 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 characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam 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 sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.