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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: 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 typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

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

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "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 performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: 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. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

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. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "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, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute 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, skilled to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic 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 inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.