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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". However, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying 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 locations: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can thus 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 significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented 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 proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely 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 legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it 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. Even historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "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 expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, 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 inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not neutral.