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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde 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 seriousness, projecting power and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

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, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. 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 nuanced form of drag, in that it performs 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 retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in other places, especially 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 quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often frustrated by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Normality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out 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 younger leader, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness 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 evident, however, is that in politics, image is not without meaning.