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Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. Even school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until lately, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a private ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says 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 advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of gaining 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." In many ways, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, 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 certain circles, endures: recently, 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 Mid-Market Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and free public buses.

"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is long and storied: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit appearance. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", 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—"respectability politics" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously donned three-piece suits during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to assume different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness 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, image is never without meaning.