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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently 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 distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, 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 weird place," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, 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 performance, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve 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 high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose families come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, 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 exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire 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. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and otherness is visible."

The suit Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure 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. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.