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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment 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 arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, 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." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, 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 closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, 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 trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of 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 be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

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 reflection of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope 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 suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, 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 culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.