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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until lately, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death 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 locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely 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 middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that 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 signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is common," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations 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 discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.