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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," says men's fashion writer 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 advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit 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 signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public trust. 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 drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates 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 don't contradict his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into 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 aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit 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 from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun exchanging their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses 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," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem 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 code-switching between languages, customs and attire is typical," it is said. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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 public life, appearance is never without meaning.