Coming of age in the British capital during the noughties, I was always immersed in a world of suits. You saw them on businessmen hurrying through the financial district. You could spot them on dads in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the evening light. Even school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Traditionally, the suit has functioned as a costume of seriousness, projecting power and performance—traits I was told to embrace to become a "man". Yet, before recently, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had all but vanished from my consciousness.
Then came the incoming New York City mayor, Zohran Mamdani. He was sworn in at a closed ceremony wearing a sober black overcoat, pristine white shirt, and a distinctive silk tie. Propelled by an ingenious campaign, he captured the world's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was cheering in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing was mostly unchanged: he was almost always in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with unstructured lines, yet conventional, his is a typically middle-class millennial suit—well, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely chooses to wear one.
"This garment is in this weird position," says men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "It's been dying a gradual fade since the end of the second world war," with the real dip arriving in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."
"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, and sometimes, legal proceedings," Guy states. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long retreated from daily life." Numerous politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have legitimacy.'" But while the suit has historically conveyed this, today it performs authority in the attempt of gaining public confidence. As Guy elaborates: "Because we are 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 nuanced form of drag, in that it enacts 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 dust off the one I bought from a Japanese department store several years ago. When I first picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and high-end, but its slim cut now feels passé. I imagine this sensation will be all too familiar for numerous people in the diaspora whose families originate in other places, particularly global south countries.
It's no surprise, the working man's suit has fallen out of fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's silhouette goes through cycles; a specific cut can therefore define an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a significant investment for something destined to be out of fashion within five years. Yet the attraction, at least in some quarters, persists: in the past year, major retailers report tailoring sales rising more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."
The mayor's go-to suit is from Suitsupply, a Dutch label that sells in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his background," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor extremely wealthy." To that end, his mid-level suit will resonate with the group most likely to support him: people in their 30s and 40s, college graduates earning professional incomes, often discontented by the cost of housing. It's precisely the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Not cheap but not extravagant, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.
"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump wearing this brand; he's a Brioni person," says Guy. "As an immensely wealthy and grew up in that property development world. A status symbol fits naturally with that tycoon class, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."
The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "controversial" tan suit to other national figures and their notably impeccable, tailored appearance. As one British politician discovered, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to characterize them.
Perhaps the point is what one scholar refers to the "enactment of ordinariness", invoking the suit's historical role as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice taps into a studied understatement, not too casual nor too flashy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him connect with as many voters as possible. However, experts think Mamdani would be cognizant 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." It is also seen as a form of defensive shield: "It is argued that if you're from a minority background, you aren't going to get taken as seriously in these white spaces." The suit becomes a way of asserting legitimacy, perhaps especially to those who might question it.
Such sartorial "code-switching" is not a recent phenomenon. Even historical leaders previously donned three-piece suits during their formative years. Currently, 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 struggle between insider and outsider is visible."
The attire Mamdani chooses is highly significant. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says 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 who wears suits and what is read into it. "That may come in part from Mamdani being a millennial, able to adopt different personas to fit the situation, but it may also be part of his multicultural background, where code-switching between languages, customs and clothing styles is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can remain unremarked," but when others "attempt to gain the power that suits represent," they must meticulously negotiate the codes associated with them.
In every seam of Mamdani's official image, the tension between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the discomfort of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an cultural expectation, 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.
A seasoned software engineer with a passion for open-source projects and tech education.
