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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and attire is common," it is said. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness 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 style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, image is not without meaning.