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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, kicking 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 professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "adult". However, until lately, my generation 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. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're 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 performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis 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 refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed 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. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

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

The legacy 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 appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point 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 taps into a deliberate modesty, 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 military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute 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 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. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort 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 clear, however, is that in public life, image is not neutral.