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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "adult". However, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

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, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured 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 remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

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

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese 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 suspect this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, 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 everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a moderate 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 appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, tailored sheen. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; 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 a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope 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 who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, image is not without meaning.