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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "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 nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic 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 a few seasons. Yet the appeal, 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 daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development 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" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning 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. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial 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 white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, 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 "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously 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 fit into 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 politics, appearance is never without meaning.