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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "man". Yet, until lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," notes 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 rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit 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 performs authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're 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 drag, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words 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 department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated 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 lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp 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, able to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into 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 never neutral.