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Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and performance—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "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 drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; 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 price, it can feel like a considerable 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, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class 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 align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, constructing 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. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly 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 "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably polished, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is never without meaning.