Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always surrounded by suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the financial district. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, projecting power and performance—traits I was expected to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, people my age seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.
Then 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 notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.
"This garment is in this strange 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 real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."
"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It is like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of performance, in that it enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.
Guy's words resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in somewhere else, particularly developing countries.
It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an appetite to invest in something special."
The Politics of a Accessible Suit
The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the demographic most likely 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 lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.
"You could never imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says 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 cohort."
The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.
The Act of Normality and Protective Armor
Maybe the key is what one academic refers to the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied 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, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, perhaps especially to those who might question it.
This kind of sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have begun exchanging their usual military wear for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.
"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the struggle between belonging and otherness is apparent."
The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive 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, able to assume different identities 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," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.
In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's sartorial choices make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.
