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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, before lately, 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 sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world'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 remained largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says 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, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally 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 vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial 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: "I think 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 credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.