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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until lately, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public'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 remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom chooses to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," says style commentator 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 settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated 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 legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "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 subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too familiar for many of us in the global community whose families come from somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced 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 precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "shocking" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform 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 connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, other world leaders have started exchanging their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."

The attire Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute 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, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," 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 tension between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, image is not neutral.