🔗 Share this article

Growing up in London during the noughties, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on City financiers hurrying through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a cheap grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—qualities I was told to embrace to become a "man". However, until lately, people my age seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.

Then came the newly elected 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 notable silk tie. Riding high by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination unlike any recent contender for city hall. But 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 unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a quintessentially professional millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a generation that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this weird place," 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 strictest locations: marriages, funerals, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "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 support me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has historically signaled this, today it enacts authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Since we're 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 enacts masculinity, authority and even proximity to power.

This analysis stayed with me. On the rare occasions I need a suit—for a wedding or formal occasion—I dust off the one I bought from a Japanese retailer a few years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel refined and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I imagine this feeling will be only too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose parents originate in other places, especially developing countries.

It's no surprise, the everyday suit has fallen out of fashion. Like a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can therefore define an era—and feel quickly outdated. Take now: more relaxed suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within five years. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something special."

The Politics of a Accessible Suit

The mayor's go-to suit is from a contemporary brand, a European label that retails in a moderate 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 appeal to the demographic most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, university-educated earning professional incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits arguably don't contradict his proposed policies—such as a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"You could never imagine Donald Trump wearing Suitsupply; he's a luxury Italian suit person," observes Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that New York real-estate world. A power suit fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

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

The Act of Normality and Protective Armor

Perhaps the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", summoning the suit's historical role as a standard attire of political power. Mamdani's specific selection 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, experts think Mamdani would be aware of the suit's military and colonial legacy: "This attire isn't neutral; scholars have long pointed out that its modern roots lie in imperial administration." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "I think 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 asserting credibility, particularly to those who might doubt it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a new phenomenon. Indeed historical leaders previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. Currently, other world leaders have started exchanging their typical fatigues for a black suit, albeit one lacking the tie.

"In every seam and stitch of Mamdani's public persona, the struggle 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 conform to what many American voters look for as a marker of leadership," notes one expert, while at the same time needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist selling out his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a younger leader, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, traditions and attire is typical," commentators note. "White males can remain unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the power that suits represent," they must carefully negotiate the expectations associated with them.

In every seam 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 cultural expectation, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make evident, however, is that in politics, image is not neutral.