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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are 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 subtle form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

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

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, tailored appearance. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "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 signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying 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 younger leader, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes 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 awkwardness 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 public life, image is not without meaning.