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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," notes style commentator 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 advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "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 nuanced 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 wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection 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 resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated 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 lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; 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 well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain 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 public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.