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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 Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, before lately, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected 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 like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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 strictest locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally 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 legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are 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 formal occasion—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 high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; 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 seamlessly with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire 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 protective armor: "I think if you're from a minority background, 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.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore three-piece suits 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.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into 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.