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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "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 performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose families originate in 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 silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: 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 considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away 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 background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with 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 precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key 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, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts 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 contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it 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 credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits 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 languages, customs and attire is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.