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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," 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."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose parents come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire 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 European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level 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 rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" 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; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.