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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," notes 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."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are 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 performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times 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 picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly 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 considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with 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; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "I think 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 signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously donned formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope 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 read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to 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 evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.