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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting power and performance—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, 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 private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," notes 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 arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, 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 manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off 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 slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose families originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore 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 cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, 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 Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates 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 don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and 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 grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, tailored appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe 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", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues 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 apparent."

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, 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 culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not neutral.