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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending 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 quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of 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 trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "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 drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose families originate in other places, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing 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. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred 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 neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "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 asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and attire is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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, image is never without meaning.