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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting power and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," 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, and sometimes, 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 "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. 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 nuanced form of performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday 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 quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting 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 likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales rising 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 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 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 cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised 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 "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; 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: "I think if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have begun swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects 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 sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive 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 adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and attire is common," it is said. "White males can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority 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 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 clear, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.