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Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned businessmen rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling power and performance—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, before recently, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my consciousness.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Numerous politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the attempt of winning public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families come from somewhere else, particularly 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 therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market 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 background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely 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 Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably polished, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of banality", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long pointed out 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 from a minority background, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even iconic figures once donned three-piece suits during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from 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 multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, insider and outsider, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.