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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but 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, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous 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 traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, 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 stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—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 high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed 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. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales rising 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 retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream 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 younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and attire is common," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam 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 public life, appearance is not neutral.