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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit 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 significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, department stores 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 Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely 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. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, 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 "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its modern roots 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 might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.