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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, 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 manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense 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 fare-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 New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their notably impeccable, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages 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. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "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, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the struggle between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.