🔗 Share this article

Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a costume of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". However, until lately, my generation appeared to wear them less and less, and they had all but disappeared 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 subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing was largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange place," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been 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, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, 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 infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too recognizable for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a specific cut can therefore define 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 destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, persists: recently, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from Suitsupply, a European label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—such as a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Normality and A Shield

Maybe the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, experts 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 imperial administration." It is also seen 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 signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures once wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun swapping their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different personas to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between cultures, traditions and clothing styles is typical," it is said. "White males can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the codes associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, appearance is never neutral.