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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are 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 drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, 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 plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable 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 world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and attire is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt 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, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness 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 public life, appearance is never without meaning.