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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to embrace to become a "man". However, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom 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 arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom 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 support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although 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 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 enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off 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 imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

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

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice 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. However, 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 contemporary origins 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 might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "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 expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute 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 millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.