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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, before lately, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my mind.

Then came the incoming 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 ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade 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 locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public trust. 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 subtle form of drag, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from other places, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic 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. Yet the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost 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 capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" 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 historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of protective armor: "I think 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 question it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.