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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, 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 wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death 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, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, 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

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally 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 frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely 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.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, customs and attire is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.