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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

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 notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, 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 ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, 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 resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost 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 stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply 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," notes one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully 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 read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able 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. "White males can go unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, image is never without meaning.