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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 financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common 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 gradual fade 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 settings: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores 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 Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" 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 military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign 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."

But there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, 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 meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.