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Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "man". However, before lately, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis 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 Japanese department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of 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: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented 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 align with his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly 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 former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one academic calls the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"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 military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, 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 sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, image is not without meaning.