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Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, until recently, people my age appeared 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. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit 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 real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially 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 vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public trust. As Guy elaborates: "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 nuanced form of drag, in that it performs manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in certain circles, persists: in the past year, department stores report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, 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 align with his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe 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 leverages a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with 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; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen 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 traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might doubt it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once donned formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani selects is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, 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 public life, appearance is never without meaning.