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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public trust. 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." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off 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 passé. I suspect this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

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

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, 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 modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously 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 read into 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 cultures, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, image is never neutral.