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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class 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 arguably align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well 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 polished, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "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," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist selling out 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 millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension 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 inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.