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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, 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." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, 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 retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, particularly 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 specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their notably impeccable, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice 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 cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "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 credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging 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 apparent."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, 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 culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.