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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, projecting power and performance—qualities I was told to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this strange place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. 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." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose families come from other places, especially global south countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, department stores report suit 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 Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely 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 constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role 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. But, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is common," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.