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Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling power and professionalism—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes men's fashion writer 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 most formal settings: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose families come from other places, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; 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 in vogue, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the attraction, at least in some quarters, endures: recently, major retailers 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 Symbolism of a Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated 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 extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni 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 former president's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the potential to characterize them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins 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 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.

This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, 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 establishment figure betraying his non-mainstream 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 younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "seek to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, 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 politics, image is not without meaning.