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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling power and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 performs 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 Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of 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: 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 Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated 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 proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, 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 military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

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

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "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 marker of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.