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Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death 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, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. 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 subtle form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: 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 five years. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails 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 extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, tailored appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one scholar refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial 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 signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously 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.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit 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 expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt 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 dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is never without meaning.