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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". Yet, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then 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. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "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 subtle form of performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, particularly global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic 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 a few seasons. But 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 everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group 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. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning 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 inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." Some also view it 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 white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is not neutral.