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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "man". However, before lately, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was celebrating in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses 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 strictest settings: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times 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 expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be all too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, particularly 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 shape goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product 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 demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A power suit 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 former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably polished, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Maybe the point is what one scholar refers to the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, experts 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 military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "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 credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Even historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, 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 politics, appearance is not neutral.