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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, projecting power and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected 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. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're 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 drag, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need 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 refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to 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 extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include 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. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

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

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled 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 attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, image is never neutral.