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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished 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 sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other 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 unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

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

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store 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 imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of 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 be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: 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 Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once donned formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle 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 progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into 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 evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is not neutral.