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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, 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 wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," says 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 most formal settings: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of 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 support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 nuanced form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: 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 five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, 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 Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly 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" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", 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—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "I think 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, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic 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 cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is never without meaning.