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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, 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 closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially developing 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 characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed 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 fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up 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 former president's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire 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. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is visible."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam 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 cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.