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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". However, before recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, 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, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade 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: weddings, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am 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 trust. 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 manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be all 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 lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, 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 exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with 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 precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president 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 status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to define them.

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "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 signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the struggle between insider and outsider is visible."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards 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 personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not neutral.