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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great 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 uniform of gravitas, projecting power and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 subtle form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like 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, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails 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." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; 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: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, 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 "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain 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 official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.