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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, before lately, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from other places, particularly 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 trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally 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 world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe 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 "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" 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 military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its modern roots 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 might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and attire is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, image is not neutral.