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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating 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, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from 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 thus define an era—and feel rapidly 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 destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history 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, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply 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," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into 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 evident, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.