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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers 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 costume of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until lately, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private 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. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising 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 Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a moderate 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 appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

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 polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that 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 asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come 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 cultures, traditions and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.