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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "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 subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, 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 special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development 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 extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into 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. However, 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 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and otherness is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute 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, skilled to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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 clear, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.