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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. 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 subtle form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store 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 sensation will be all too familiar for many of us in the global community whose families originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's 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 attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost 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 stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "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.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist 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 interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.