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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until 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. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet 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 typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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 strictest settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically 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." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: 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 considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

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

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once donned formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between belonging and otherness is visible."

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, image is not neutral.