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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, before lately, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. 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. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," says 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in somewhere else, particularly developing 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 therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: 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

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni 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 well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "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 legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply 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 expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles 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 carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam 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 built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, image is not neutral.