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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, 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 closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents 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 cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined 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 "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite 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 sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates 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 align with his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The history 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, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"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: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins 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 might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, image is never neutral.