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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. 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 enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, 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 Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

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 suspiciously polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

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

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is not neutral.