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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, before lately, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" 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 democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, major retailers 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 Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his stated policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen 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 credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects 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 expect as a sign of leadership," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in politics, image is never without meaning.