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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers 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 functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared 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 ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional 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 style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families come from other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore 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 five years. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level 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 precisely 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, building 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 grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection 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, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, 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 style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.