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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "man". However, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming 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 notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying 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."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve 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 slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday 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 quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic 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. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite 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. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely 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 cohort."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out 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 a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive 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 millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.