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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

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 distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says 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 arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear 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 moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional 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 capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection 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, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins 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 "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully 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. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.