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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment 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 arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve 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 passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians 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 a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun 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 belonging and otherness is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child 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 author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, 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 public life, image is never without meaning.