Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and performance—traits I was told to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my consciousness.
Then came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony dressed in a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. But 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 unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.
"The suit is in this strange position," says style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a slow death since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."
"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are 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 nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.
Guy's words stayed with me. 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 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 sensation will be only too familiar for numerous people in the global community whose families originate in other places, especially developing 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 thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed 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. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."
The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a reflection of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, 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 thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-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 New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally 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 national figures and their notably impeccable, tailored sheen. Like a certain British politician learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.
Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. But, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's military and colonial 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 protective armor: "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 legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.
This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, other world leaders have started swapping their usual fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.
"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is visible."
The suit Mamdani selects is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child 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 expert, while at the same time needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."
Yet there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between cultures, traditions and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unnoticed," 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 public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in public life, appearance is never neutral.
