🔗 Share this article

Growing up in London during the 2000s, I was constantly immersed in a world of suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by fathers in the city's great park, playing with footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our mandatory uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a costume of gravitas, projecting authority and professionalism—traits I was expected to aspire to to become a "adult". Yet, before recently, my generation seemed to wear them infrequently, and they had largely vanished from my mind.

Then 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 notable silk tie. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captured the public's imagination unlike any recent mayoral candidate. Yet whether he was celebrating in a music venue or appearing at a film premiere, one thing remained largely unchanged: he was frequently in a suit. Loosely tailored, modern with soft shoulders, yet conventional, his is a typically professional millennial suit—that is, as common as it can be for a cohort that seldom bothers to wear one.

"The suit is in this strange position," notes men's fashion writer Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the real dip coming in the 1990s alongside "the rise of business casual."

"It's basically only worn in the strictest locations: marriages, memorials, to some extent, legal proceedings," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "fundamentally represents a tradition that has long ceded from daily life." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can trust me. You should support me. I have authority.'" But while the suit has traditionally signaled this, today it performs authority in the hope of winning public confidence. As Guy clarifies: "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 performance, in that it enacts manliness, authority and even closeness to power.

This analysis resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need 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 picked it up, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels passé. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the global community whose parents come from other places, particularly developing countries.

Unsurprisingly, the everyday suit has lost fashion. Like 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: looser-fitting suits, reminiscent of Richard Gere's Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be in vogue, but given the price, it can feel like a considerable investment for something destined to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, major retailers report suit sales increasing more than 20% as customers "shift from the suit being daily attire towards an desire to invest in something special."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a moderate price bracket. "He is precisely a reflection of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's neither poor nor exceptionally wealthy." Therefore, his moderately-priced suit will resonate with the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, college graduates earning middle-class incomes, often discontented by the expense of housing. It's exactly the kind of suit they might wear themselves. Affordable but not lavish, Mamdani's suits plausibly align with his proposed policies—which include a rent freeze, constructing affordable homes, and fare-free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine Donald Trump 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 naturally with that elite, just as more accessible brands fit well with Mamdani's constituency."

The history of suits in politics is extensive and rich: from a former president's "shocking" beige attire to other national figures and their notably polished, tailored appearance. Like a certain UK leader discovered, the suit doesn't just dress the politician; it has the potential to define them.

Performance of Banality and A Shield

Perhaps the key is what one scholar calls the "performance of banality", invoking the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's specific selection taps into a studied modesty, neither shabby nor showy—"respectability politics" in an unobtrusive suit—to help him appeal to as many voters as possible. But, some 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 contemporary origins lie in imperial administration." Some also view it as a form of defensive shield: "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 credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

This kind of sartorial "code-switching" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their formative years. Currently, certain world leaders have started exchanging their typical military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The suit Mamdani chooses is highly symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of South Asian heritage and a democratic socialist, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a marker of leadership," says one author, while simultaneously needing to walk a tightrope by "not looking like an elitist betraying his non-mainstream roots and values."

Yet there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is read into it. "This could stem in part from Mamdani being a millennial, skilled to adopt different identities to fit the occasion, but it may also be part of his diverse background, where adapting between cultures, customs and attire is common," commentators note. "Some individuals can go unremarked," but when women and ethnic minorities "attempt to gain the authority that suits represent," they must carefully navigate the expectations associated with them.

Throughout the presentation of Mamdani's official image, the dynamic between belonging and displacement, inclusion and exclusion, is evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to 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 sartorial choices make evident, however, is that in public life, appearance is not neutral.