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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, 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 closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death 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 most formal settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, 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 performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's 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: recently, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "performance of ordinariness", summoning 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—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial 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 defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, 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.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child 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," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not neutral.