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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent 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 trust. 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." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, major retailers report suit 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 Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch 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 not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

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

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial 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 legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet 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 "avoiding the appearance of 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 millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not neutral.