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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". However, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative 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 was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying 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: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, especially developing 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 cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing 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 be out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost 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—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots 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 white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek 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 fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not neutral.