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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, 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 sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," notes men's fashion writer 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."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, 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 performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several 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 come from other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells 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." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated 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 luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous 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 apolitical; historians have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial 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 new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp 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, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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 evident, however, is that in politics, image is never without meaning.