🔗 Share this article

Growing up in the British capital during the noughties, I was constantly surrounded by suits. They adorned City financiers rushing through the Square Mile. They were worn by dads in Hyde Park, kicking footballs in the golden light. At school, a inexpensive grey suit was our required uniform. Historically, the suit has served as a uniform of seriousness, signaling power and professionalism—qualities I was expected to aspire to to become a "man". Yet, until lately, people my age appeared to wear them infrequently, and they had largely 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. Propelled by an innovative campaign, he captivated the world's imagination like no other recent contender for city hall. But 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. Relaxed in fit, modern with soft shoulders, yet traditional, his is a quintessentially middle-class millennial suit—that is, as typical as it can be for a cohort that rarely bothers to wear one.

"This garment is in this weird position," notes style commentator Derek Guy. "Its decline has been a gradual fade since the end of the Second World War," with the significant drop coming in the 1990s alongside "the advent of business casual."

"Today it is only worn in the strictest locations: weddings, memorials, to some extent, court appearances," Guy explains. "It's sort of like the traditional Japanese robe in Japan," in that it "essentially represents a tradition that has long retreated from everyday use." Many politicians "wear a suit to say: 'I am a politician, you can have faith in me. You should vote for me. I have legitimacy.'" Although the suit has traditionally conveyed this, today it enacts authority in the hope of gaining public trust. As Guy clarifies: "Because we are also living in a liberal democracy, politicians want to seem approachable, 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 resonated deeply. On the infrequent times I need a suit—for a wedding or black-tie event—I retrieve the one I bought from a Tokyo department store several years ago. When I first selected it, it made me feel sophisticated and expensive, but its slim cut now feels outdated. I suspect this feeling will be only too familiar for many of us in the diaspora whose families originate in somewhere else, especially global south countries.

It's no surprise, the working man's suit has lost fashion. Similar to a pair of jeans, a suit's shape goes through cycles; a particular cut can thus characterize an era—and feel rapidly outdated. Consider the present: looser-fitting suits, echoing a famous cinematic Armani in *American Gigolo*, might be trendy, but given the cost, it can feel like a considerable investment for something likely to fall out of fashion within a few seasons. Yet the appeal, at least in some quarters, endures: in the past year, department stores report tailoring sales increasing more than 20% as customers "move away from the suit being daily attire towards an appetite to invest in something exceptional."

The Symbolism of a Accessible Suit

Mamdani's preferred suit is from a contemporary brand, a Dutch label that retails in a mid-market price bracket. "He is precisely a product of his upbringing," says Guy. "A relatively young person, he's not poor but not exceptionally wealthy." To that end, his moderately-priced suit will appeal to the group most inclined to support him: people in their thirties and forties, university-educated earning professional incomes, often frustrated 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—which include a capping rents, constructing affordable homes, and free public buses.

"It's impossible to imagine a former president wearing Suitsupply; he's a Brioni person," observes Guy. "He's extremely wealthy and was raised in that property development world. A power suit fits seamlessly with that elite, just as attainable brands fit well with Mamdani's cohort."

The legacy of suits in politics is long and storied: from a well-known leader's "shocking" tan suit to other world leaders and their notably impeccable, tailored sheen. As one UK leader learned, the suit doesn't just clothe the politician; it has the power to define them.

The Act of Banality and A Shield

Maybe the key is what one academic calls the "enactment of ordinariness", summoning the suit's long career as a uniform of political power. Mamdani's particular choice leverages 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, some think Mamdani would be cognizant 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." Some also view it 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 credibility, particularly to those who might question it.

Such sartorial "changing styles" is hardly a recent phenomenon. Indeed iconic figures previously wore formal Western attire during their early years. These days, other world leaders have started swapping their usual military wear for a black suit, albeit one without the tie.

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

The attire Mamdani selects is deeply symbolic. "As a Muslim child of immigrants of Indian descent and a progressive politician, he is under pressure to meet what many American voters expect as a sign of leadership," notes one expert, while simultaneously needing to navigate carefully by "avoiding the appearance of an elitist selling out his distinctive roots and values."

But there is an sharp awareness of the different rules applied to who wears suits and what is interpreted from 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 multicultural background, where adapting between languages, customs and attire is typical," commentators note. "White males can go unnoticed," but when women and ethnic minorities "seek to gain the authority 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 evident. I know well the awkwardness of trying to conform to something not designed with me in mind, be it an inherited tradition, the culture I was born into, or even a suit. What Mamdani's style decisions make clear, however, is that in politics, image is not neutral.