Growing up in London during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". However, before lately, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.
Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.
"The suit is in this weird place," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."
"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It is like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." In many ways, a suit is just a nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.
This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.
It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting 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 a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."
The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional 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 plausibly don't contradict his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.
"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."
The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other world leaders and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.
Maybe the point is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate understatement, 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 aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't apolitical; historians have long noted that its modern roots lie in military or colonial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "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 doubt it.
Such sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one without the tie.
"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is visible."
The suit Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist selling out 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 millennial, able to assume different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between languages, traditions and clothing styles is common," it is said. "White males can go unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the expectations associated with them.
Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, image is not without meaning.
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