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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—qualities I was expected to embrace to become a "man". Yet, before lately, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it performs manliness, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose families come from other places, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday 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 rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in certain circles, endures: in the past year, 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 Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol 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 "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit appearance. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; historians have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial 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 signaling credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore three-piece suits during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, 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 culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.