🔗 Share this article

Coming of age in London during the 2000s, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers rushing through the financial district. You could spot them on fathers in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the evening light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Traditionally, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, projecting authority and performance—traits I was told to embrace to become a "adult". However, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my mind.

Subsequently came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. Taking his oath of office at a private ceremony dressed in a subdued black overcoat, crisp white shirt, and a notable silk tie. Riding high by an ingenious campaign, he captivated the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. But whether he was cheering in a hip-hop club or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely constant: he was almost always in a suit. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, 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.

"This garment 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 significant drop arriving in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest settings: marriages, funerals, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the kimono in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a custom that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "don this attire to say: 'I represent a politician, you can trust me. You should vote for me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has historically signaled this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "Since we're also living in a democratic society, 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 manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents come from somewhere else, particularly developing countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through trends; a particular cut can therefore characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: more relaxed suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. But the appeal, at least in certain circles, endures: recently, major retailers report suit sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Politics of a Mid-Market Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch 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 resonate with the demographic most inclined to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, building affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing this brand; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly 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 well-known leader's "shocking" beige attire to other world leaders and their suspiciously polished, custom-fit sheen. Like a certain British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

Performance of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages a deliberate understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"conforming to norms" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's historical and imperial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long noted that its contemporary origins lie in military or colonial administration." Some also view it as a form of protective armor: "I think if you're a person of color, you might not get taken as seriously in these traditional institutions." The suit becomes a way of signaling legitimacy, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders once wore three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have begun swapping their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle between insider and outsider is apparent."

The attire Mamdani chooses is deeply significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under scrutiny to conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an establishment figure betraying his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an acute awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to assume different identities 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. "Some individuals can remain unnoticed," 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 public persona, the tension between somewhere and nowhere, inclusion and exclusion, is visible. I know well the awkwardness of trying to fit into something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the society I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is not without meaning.