🔗 Share this article

Growing up in the British capital during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, signaling authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, people my age seemed 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 private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or attending a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a generation that seldom chooses to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the most formal settings: weddings, memorials, and sometimes, court appearances," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" Although the suit has historically conveyed 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 relatable, because they're trying to get your votes." To a large extent, a suit is just a subtle form of drag, in that it performs masculinity, authority and even closeness to power.

Guy's words stayed with me. On the infrequent times I require a suit—for a ceremony or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store a few years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its tailored fit now feels passé. I imagine this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Take now: looser-fitting suits, echoing Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to be out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something exceptional."

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. "In his thirties, he's not poor but not extremely wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most likely to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his stated policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A status symbol fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit naturally with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "controversial" beige attire to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the point is what one scholar calls the "performance of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied understatement, neither shabby nor showy—"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 military and colonial legacy: "The suit isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots 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 aren't going to get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started swapping their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply symbolic. "Being the son of immigrants of Indian descent and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to conform to 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 selling out 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. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must meticulously navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not built for me, be it an cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is never neutral.