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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade 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 settings: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. 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." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed 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, endures: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"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: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out 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 might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the struggle between belonging and otherness is visible."

The attire Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute 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 millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, 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 never neutral.