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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, 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 ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words 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 Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, 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, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite 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 mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates 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 extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to 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 status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "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 asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying 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 younger leader, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is typical," it is said. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.