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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before lately, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world'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 remained mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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 strictest locations: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "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 represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. 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 subtle form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive 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 apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension 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 progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into 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, image is not neutral.