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Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, pristine 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 celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled 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 relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents come from other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly 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 likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic 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 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, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable 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 national figures and their notably impeccable, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous 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: "This attire isn't neutral; 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: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between belonging and otherness is visible."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.