🔗 Share this article

Coming of age in London during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the financial district. They were worn by fathers in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, my generation appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but disappeared from my mind.

Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, contemporary with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," says 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 coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal locations: marriages, funerals, to some extent, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I represent a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public trust. 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 manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I require 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 selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be only too recognizable for many of us in the global community whose parents originate in somewhere else, especially developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel quickly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. But the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: recently, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being everyday wear towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics 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 neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his mid-level suit will appeal to the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning middle-class 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 don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says 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 naturally 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 notably impeccable, tailored appearance. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Banality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection leverages a deliberate modesty, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't apolitical; historians have long noted 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 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. Even historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have begun exchanging their usual fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's image, the tension between belonging and otherness is apparent."

The suit 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 at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his distinctive roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the double standards applied to suit-wearers and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different identities to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," it is said. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the codes associated with them.

In every seam of Mamdani's public persona, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the discomfort of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, appearance is not without meaning.