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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit 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 conveyed this, today it enacts 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." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose families originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away 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 a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, 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 world leaders and their notably impeccable, tailored sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" 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: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "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 signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and otherness is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But 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 millennial, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, 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, appearance is never without meaning.