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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and professionalism—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public'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 largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment 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 advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape 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 destined to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, 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 exceptional."

The Politics 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. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class 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 plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and 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 grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware 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 a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension 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 cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.