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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort 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 advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous 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 traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, particularly global south 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 define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, department stores 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 Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated 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 proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible 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 appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long noted 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But 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 millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, customs and attire is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes 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 awkwardness of trying to fit into 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 politics, appearance is never without meaning.