🔗 Share this article

Coming of age in the British capital during the 2000s, I was always surrounded by suits. They adorned businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. You could spot them on dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the evening light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has functioned as a costume of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". Yet, until recently, my generation seemed to wear them less and less, and they had largely disappeared from my mind.

Subsequently came the newly elected New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the world's imagination like no other recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a hip-hop club or attending a film premiere, one thing remained mostly constant: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, contemporary with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird place," says style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest settings: weddings, funerals, and sometimes, 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." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should support me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are also living in a democratic society, politicians want to seem approachable, 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 require a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Tokyo department store 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 suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents come from other places, particularly global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through trends; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, 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 certain circles, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that sells in a mid-market price bracket. "Mamdani is very much a product of his background," says Guy. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not lavish, Mamdani's suits arguably align with his stated policies—such as a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their suspiciously impeccable, custom-fit sheen. As one UK leader 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 calls the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a deliberate modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"conforming to norms" in an inconspicuous suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. However, some think Mamdani would be cognizant of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; historians have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial 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 legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is not a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore formal Western attire during their formative years. These days, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a dark formal outfit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"Throughout the fabric of Mamdani's image, the tension between insider and outsider is apparent."

The suit Mamdani selects is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under scrutiny to meet what many American voters look for as a sign of leadership," notes one author, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet 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 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 typical," it is said. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "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 tension between belonging and displacement, insider and outsider, is evident. 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not without meaning.