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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering 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 unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," 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 advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents come from other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales increasing 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 sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, 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 grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "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, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come 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 diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort 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 style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.