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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," says style commentator 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 locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many 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 historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt 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 nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined 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 lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But 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 millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, image is not neutral.