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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". However, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently 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, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," notes style commentator 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 settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled 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 relatable, 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.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales increasing 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

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, 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 this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into 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. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out 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. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.