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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense 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 stated policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

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

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"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 historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it 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 signaling credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues 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 visible."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out 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. "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 adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension 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 culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.