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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. 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." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with 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 exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict 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," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably polished, tailored appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its modern roots 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent 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 at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to assume different personas 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. "White males can go unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.