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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, 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, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death 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 most formal settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 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 a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus define 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 price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales increasing 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

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders once donned three-piece suits during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their typical 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 suit Mamdani selects is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. 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 evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.