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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, my generation seemed 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 private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

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

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining 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 nuanced form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require 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 refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed 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 five years. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history 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 UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues 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 visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "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 sign of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and attire is common," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. 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 public life, image is never without meaning.