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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking 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, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. 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." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost 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. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, major retailers 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 Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, 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 extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire 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: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once donned formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.