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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before 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 private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet 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 traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, 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 performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed 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 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 daily attire 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 European label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional 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 plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "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 expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits 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 languages, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.