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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden 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". However, until recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying 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."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of 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 am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too recognizable for numerous people in the global community whose families come from other places, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a specific cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection 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 group 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 extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

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 polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, 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.